


si vis amari, ama

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Friendship, Horror, House Baratheon, House Dayne, House Lannister, House Stark, House Targaryen, House Tyrell, House Yronwood, Humor, Murder, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-03 09:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 53
Words: 23,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To those that love (and not only)... Collection of drabbles concerning pairings that have taken my fancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prisoner - edric d./alla

**Author's Note:**

> Basically a whole lot of drabbles with various pairings that strike my fancy.

Starfall is a beautiful place. Alla supposes that she ought to feel blessed when she is given to Edric Dayne. He is kind. But for all of Starfall’s beauty and Edric’s kindness, Alla finds the desert suffocating. She is a Tyrell, has been and always will be, all things considered. (Who would marry her, with all the talk of treason that goes around about her family?)

Sometimes she glances at Lord Dayne, Edric who is not so much older than her and wishes she were more than a comfortably kept prisoner in a prison of silk and precious stones.     

Often she finds herself standing atop the Palestone Tower and looking down. (Lady Ashara Dayne has flung herself from this spot, they say.) Dizziness makes her head spin. And just when she thinks that she might find her freedom, be it in death, a hand grasps her shoulder.

Edric’s blue eyes - almost violet with the way the light shines on them - and his stern face greet her. Alla swallows with a bit of difficulty. Edric Dayne is kind, and there are worse fates than hers, but his kindness helps her not a whit, because she doesn’t want to accept that she will live the rest of her life a prisoner.     


	2. beauty - edric s./myrcella

Edric Storm looks upon his sister – not his sister, not truly, not by blood – and smiles. They are not unlike the Targaryens in this. (For really in the eyes of all she is still Robert’s daughter and he the bastard son.) Myrcella smiles back shyly, half of her face hidden beneath a veil the colour of sun kissed sand.    

People whisper as they’ve always done. They compare the son to the father and the daughter to the mother (and find her lacking, for Myrcella had half her face destroyed and they’ve always put more stock in beauty of the flesh). Edric is content to hold her hand and trace the scars when they lie abed and tell her she is beautiful. Because she is. Myrcella will hit his arm gently and murmur a quiet protest. His sister – not sister – can be stubborn when it suits her. “One of these days you’ll have to admit that I am right.” It is not a reproach, Edric wouldn’t dream of it.

Myrcella hides her green eyes away from his own blue orbs. He thinks that she may have been saying something, alas she’s spoken so lightly that he caught none of it. So Edric settles back against the pillows, without another word.

 


	3. king stag - shireen/edric s./myrcella

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Edric Storm takes the throne with the help of Shireen, and makes her Queen, but loves Myrcella, whom he also crowns.

King Stag with all his court makes merry, giving hardly a thought to all the death and destruction outside the city walls. They bring out the dragon skulls and the Red Witch, as some have taken to calling Queen Shireen’s little helper, sacrifices men to her God just to mock the hollow sockets that used to be eyes. Edric drinks deep from his cup, his arm around his other Queen’s waist. It is a strange sight, one golden haired lioness and two tawny stags that have taken to living together.

Shireen and Myrcella, night and day, they sit next to Edric, obsidian and gold, power and love. King Stag smiles at one and holds the other, and they rule this vast empire all three of them together as they should.  

Sweet wine and meats, they cover the rotting corpses in the streets with veils of music and cheer. And the world spins on as it has always done. The fires burn and the bodies pile, and King Stag and all his court make merry, for there is the glory and theirs the triumph. And you may hear it whispered that Edric spoils both his Queen, granting their every wish. For one hold his heart, the other his crown; and together they are almost one woman whole.  


	4. the shadows too - (lyanna s./) rhaegar t./elia m.(/arthur d.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Rhaegar fathers one of Elia's children and Arthur the other.

Rhaegar supposes he should feel anger, he should feel slighted, cheated, insulted even. Yet looking at Elia he can summon nothing but vague sympathy. He doesn’t love her – he never did – and the chance of it growing between them has burned away long ago. (And Lyanna still fills his dreams, with her far off gaze and slightly awkward mannerism, which reminds him more of a girl than of a woman.)

Aegon sleeps in his mother’s arms, his pale-lilac eyes closed. “And Rhaenys?” His daughter is all her mother, dark eyes and dark hair; it would be impossible to tell if she is his or Arthur’s. So he asks.

“She is yours,” Elia responds, rocking her son gently. Her golden skin seems almost waxen in the dim light, she’s still too pale, still to weak. Rhaegar nods his head slowly. He doesn’t sit up from his chair.

“I’ve left Lyanna with Arthur,” he says, almost casually. “When I come back, I shall free the both of us.” Because Elia deserves to be happy as much as he. It is only then that he makes to depart. “Rhaenys remains with me. (He’s so very sure that Lyanna will accept his daughter with open arms, and raise her alongside whatever children are born to them.) 


	5. sand castles - eddara/quentyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Eddara Tallhart takes to the Dornish sands.

Eddara moves the heavy coil of her braid onto her shoulder, cold sweat dripping down her forehead. She wipes it away with a kerchief which she then hides in the sleeve of her dress. “How much longer?” she asks, peering through the small space that has been left between the curtains. The Dornish sands will drown her without doubt. In the end, when she does reach Sunspear, Eddara she is too tired to even marvel at the beauty of it.

Quentyn looks upon the Northerner woman they’ve found for him and sighs. He can see her discomfort as if it were plainly written in her eyes. Proud and free she may be, but she is also miserable as far as he can tell. Eddara Tallhart will have to learn that only beyond pride and freedom can she stand unbowed, unbent, unbroken. She is no Dornish woman, but she’ll do well enough.

Her hand is cold in his. Eddara wonders at the heat of the man’s skin as he helps her to her feet. “Greeting, my Lord.”She tries to keep her wits about her, which shouldn’t prove to be a challenge.

“My Lady, I welcome you to Sunspear.” His skin is dark against hers, and Quentyn finds that pleasantly surprising, though he takes care to keep that to himself.   


	6. lord snow - jon s./lyanna m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Lyanna Mormont at the Wall...

When all her sisters are gone and her mother too, Lyanna Mormont knows that she cannot fall to her knees and cry. Instead, she walks the halls of Castle Black, the shades whispering to her. She can’t weep.

“It is not wrong to grieve,” Lord Commander Snow tells her. He is such a grim, stern-faced man. Lyanna gazes upon Longclaw at his side. Again she has to remind herself that her uncle gave the sword to him. Why? Perhaps because he though him worthy of it. Or did he consider him a son?

“Later, Lord Snow,” Lyanna whispers. She expects that he will leave her here, with falling, frozen tears. Instead he guides her to a bench, encouraging her to place her head on his shoulder. Lyanna misses her sisters and her mother horribly by now. “Does it ever end?”

“No,” he answers. And to this Lyanna can but smile, for she remembers what they used to say about his father. Starks are no liars, neither is he. (For he’s a Stark as much as his siblings had been.) “I don’t think so.” He pats her back gently, brotherly even. The young woman still smiles through her tears.

Lyanna hums softly in the back of her throat. The ghosts are not so loud any longer. Winter has come.         


	7. bliss - lyanna m./jon s.(/ygritte)

Lyanna wonders if Jon dreams of wild, red hair and pale blue eyes, or if he thinks of his wildling lover when he comes to her bed deep in the night. (Ygritte who was young and vibrant. Ygritte who is dead before her time.) Does she compare them? Lyanna’s dark hair to his former paramour’s, their eyes and the way they kiss, the way they feel. Does he dream of endless snow and dark caves?

She doesn’t dare listen to the name he murmurs against her damp skin. Lyanna simply twines her fingers in his dark hair, just a bit darker than hers, and stares at a spot on the ceiling. This winter is harsh, harsher than she would have thought possible even with the attacks of the undead. The wounds, be they of the flesh or not, are badly bandaged and Lyanna thinks that if they peel the gauze away they will see them festering.

Her body trembles at his release. Her hips instinctively follow Jon’s retreat, trying to cling to the warmth. There is precious little of that, the gods know. (Just in moments such as these does Lyanna feel anything but ice, and she’s so tired of being cold all the time.) 


	8. crumble - lyanna s.(/rhaegar t.)

Red spills across her lips, down her chin and in her lap. Lyanna lets put a sigh of frustration and makes to rise when her breath is cut off by a sudden, visceral pain. (Her chest is tight, her ribs ache, like someone has broken them with a blunt object.) Her hand automatically goes to her chest, where she can feel her hear beating wildly. A choked cry is caught in her throat, and this time another sort of red starts staining her dress. She doesn’t even wonder – there’s too much pain for her to - why it is her upper body hurting.

When the pain has spread throughout her entire frame, Lyanna can almost taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth, her nostrils filled with its scent. The curious thing is that before her eyes the sky is blue and the grass is green and the river laps at the lush earth. (Shouldn’t she be seeing sands and high suns and too much light?) It strikes her that the eyes she sees through are not hers, because slowly, slowly she is engulfed by water. How can she be when Lyanna feels the mattress underneath her? Something like panic grips her, and from there on whether its drowning or suffocating, it matters little. 


	9. stimuli - eddara/quentyn

Sitting in the shade of a tree, Eddara watches Quentyn practice with a spear. Her face is frozen in an impassive mask – one which she has practiced for many years until she’s finally reached this result. Figs and pomegranate seeds and other fruits she does not know what to name pass her lips from time to time. (And in her mind she thinks about the comfort of those arms thrusting the spear, and of hot lips on her, sharp stubble dragged across her skin.) Eddara shivers.

She’s still not used to the too thin silk of her dress, its gauziness and the stares it attracts – those that aren’t Quentyn’s.

Red coats her fingertips and sweetness fills her mouth, the pomegranate seeds yielding their juice to her teeth. Eddara half smiles at Quentyn when he glances her way. She watches curiously as he approaches, her dark eyes glinting in the light. The Lord kneels before her, taking crimson lips with his. And bitter mixes with sweet. Eddara feels another sort of heat burning through her, from the inside out, without an ounce of mercy.

Quentyn released her with a short movement back. He returns to his drill, leaving Eddara to her fruits. (And to the taste of his mouth and the feel of his short cropped beard grazing her cheeks.)    


	10. valar morghulis - allyria/beric

Allyria doesn’t weep when they tell her of Beric’s demise, nor when after more than a few years they bring her his bones, white and lifeless. She tries not to stare at the hollows which used to be eyes and at the too clean bones. She tries not to remember the red-golden tresses and the smile and the sound of his voice. She tries so hard not to feel his arms – ghosts – wrap around her.

“Even after that he lived a while longer,” Edric says, recounting the battle at the Mummer’s Ford, or rather the massacre, for the hundredth time. “And then he was revived. But not for long.”

In her room she rereads the letters that he’s sent her; it seems that it has been ages since they strolled in the gardens, the sun beating upon them. Allyria looks up, catching her reflection, and behind a shadow-like figure. She does not grow frightened or scream. Why should she? After all, what is dead may never die but rises again harder and stronger, and her Beric has been dead many times over.

“I hope you’ll like it here,” she says, placing the jar of ashes on a small table next to her bed. The shade in the mirror flickers and dies away leaving behind empty space.     


	11. she-wolf - robert b./lyanna s.(/rhaegar t.)

Lyanna weds Robert with a heavy heart, her infant son in Eddard’s arms. The Septon is clearly displeased but says nothing. Robert is king and as such he will have his way. They have forced her into this, promising a secure life for her and Jon. Lyanna knows – as does everybody – what has been done to Elia’s children. And because she knows and she is first and foremost a mother, Lyanna accepts Robert’s suit. Her life in exchange for her son’s.

Day and night, she has to endure seeing Robert’s face, the face of her true husband’s killer. For even as she promises love and faith, her thought are on the mate of her soul, on Rhaegar with his silver hair and violet eyes and sad, sad smile. When Robert comes to her bed reeking of wine and drunk out of his mind and demanding and more often than not violent, she submits to his touch, saving her tears for when he is no longer conscious. And thus the years pass over her and her son, whom they call Jon Snow.

She gives the King no sons, her womb refuses to take his seed. And truthfully Lyanna is glad for it. Let his put his children in other women.

Then, when her boy is hardly old enough to climb a horse, the unthinkable happens. Somehow he has managed to climb into one of the towers – her son is no climber, her son hardly leaves her sight – or so they say and he slipped. They give her his small, mangled body. Lyanna doesn’t have to look at Robert to know his reaction, and she doesn’t have to think twice about what she’ll do.

On the night when he creeps into her room, barring the door, Lyanna waits for him, candles burning brightly. She allows him the use of her body, as she’s always done, and waits until sleep takes him. The hair pin on the table glints. She stretches out for it, wrapping trembling fingers against the gold. Before a second can pass, the metal is embedded into Robert’s throat, a pillow coming down to muffle his cry. Lyanna presses down with all her strength, barely feeling the sticky, red substance that has started slithering down, being soaked in her dress.   

“He was mine,” she hisses at the bubbling blood. “You had no right. No right, to take him from me.” Is she speaking of Rhaegar or of Jon? Not even she knows. The only thing she is aware of is that the dawn is breaking.


	12. the maid - tyta f.(/arthur d.) and roslin f.

Tyta helps little Roslin into her dress, both with tears streaming down their cheeks. “Remember to smile,” the older sister says, “and you needn’t fear what is to follow.” Out of all her sisters she loves Roslin best, because they are most alike in appearance and in comport. “Just close your eyes and go far away in your mind.”  

“I don’t want to do this,” the younger sobs, crumpling the fine silk of her skirts. Neither does Tyta but their father has spoken, and they are powerless to stop him, least they cost their brothers their lives.

Hugging Roslin to her, Tyta tries to offer some comfort. Maybe the Gods will take pity and help them. Although Tyta is sceptical, for the Gods have stopped listening to their prayers a long time ago. But she’ll try either way for Roslin and her happiness. “I shall pray to the Maiden and to the Mother for you.”

“Best pray for yourself girl,” Wader Frey says, standing in the doorway. “I’ve come to see that you are ready.” This time he speaks to Roslin. “Leave us. I’ll speak with your sister alone.”

Father has always hated her, Tyta thinks. Not because her mother died birthing her, and certainly not for her love of books and learning, but for her uselessness. Tyta the Maid, they call her. She’s never been married, so naturally she’s brought little to her family. But Tyta has been loved and this she refuses to share with the rest of them, save Roslin whom she loves as her own.

In truth Tyta is no maid. She loved a silver haired man, with a white cloak and a sword of stars.  And though she has nothing of him to hold, she holds him in her heart, safely hidden among her memories.     


	13. scaled tailed wolves - lyanna s.(/rhaegar t.) and catelyn(/eddard s.)

Benjen takes the black and Lyanna takes the frozen throne of the North in the name of her son. Jon is just a babe, and Lyanna will do whatever she must to protect him. Catelyn Tully Stark has yet to give birth and the she-wolf knows that even when she does the northern Houses will still support her claim. the Tullys are of the South and the North remembers.

She doesn’t ride to battle, nor does she promise to share her kingdom or her rule with anyone. But when push comes to shove, her armies still push the Baratheon banners away. Roberts writes that he loves her and he wants her as his Queen, but Lyanna knows what it is to have been loved and she does not allow herself to be fooled. Roberts wants a trophy.

When Catelyn’s son is born, Lyanna can see no trace of Eddard in him. Still, she reckons that the boy is much like her own. “Let them have a joint reign.” One shall be the warrior and the other the thinker. Lyanna smiles at Catelyn. “And we’ll have peace.”

So the north loses its Lord, but gains two Queens who are closer than sisters and fiercer than wolves. And children who are only half-wolves, the other half all scales, grow in the bitter winters.     

 

 


	14. mythos - tyta f./arthur d.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU, because I just felt like it. Rather short and random.

Arthur kisses the curve of Tyta’s neck, pressing his fingers into her waist at the quiet cries that leave her lips. She squirms slight in his grasp, like a small swallow trying to make an escape, her dark hair a fragrant stream falling across her shoulder. His hand slides onto the back of her thigh, lifting her even more.

“We shall get caught, my Lord,” Tyta whines softly, not even trying to hold onto her clothes that are falling apart at the pull of his insistent fingers.

“Let them,” Arthur replies. He could pull her into the solar but the hall is empty too and she is so tempting, suspended against the wall, her front pressed flush to his. “I have no intention of letting go.” She is too shy by far, yet Arthur finds that this is part of her charm. Tyta wouldn’t be Tyta if she didn’t let this bashfulness of hers show from time to time.

Thus he simply carries her away, into the solar, allowing her the comfort.   


	15. dein aschenes Haar Sulamith - tyta f.(/arthur d.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Red Wedding musings. Titel -line from Paul Celan's "Todesfuge".

There is blood on her dress and the taste of death in her mouth. Tyta drags away one of the fallen bodies, her cheeks stinging after the blow it had received. She doesn’t dare look at Lady Stark with her vibrant reddish-brown tresses stained scarlet by blood, her own blood, her son’s blood. The Seven will strike them all for this folly.

She can only imagine what poor Rosling is feeling right now. The girl must be crying herself dry over what she known is happening down below. Pale, dead eyes stare up at her. Tyta snarls at the man’s expression. “Family, Duty, Honour,” she tells him. “These are your Lady’s words, are they not? I choose family, I choose my brothers.” And that is the only excuse she has. If only Lord Stark hadn’t marries a woman other than her sister. “Foolish, foolish boy.”

Roslin is paying for his thoughtlessness, his uncle and his mother and all the people who have actually nothing to do with it. Tyta thinks the whole situation unfair, but after the beating she took and threat hanging over her brothers, she can do little but comply. “You should have chosen a different lord,” she speaks again, looking down. “I will try my best though to make amends with the Seven for thus brutality.” At this point it is rather too late, but Tyta thinks that they should accept her supplication for they’d done nothing to stop this disaster.

Death on her lips and horror in her eyes, Tyta talks to the corpses of these fallen men as if they were friends, for her own beloved is long since rotten flesh and bleached bones, another kind of silver, she thinks. She looks up towards the sky. “You did not even see fit to allow me a scrap of dignity.” It sears and sizzles, and she chokes back a cry.    


	16. death ends a life, not a relationship - rhaegar t./lyanna s. and oberyn m/elia m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU! Rhaegar survives the Trident, Oberyn takes vengeance on the targets available to him.
> 
> There are some faint necrophiliac overtones, so beware. I've warned you, my duty is done. Happy reading. Title is the quote of Jack Lemmon.

Rhaegar trudges up the stairwell, half-mad with grief and filled with rage. In his wake the bodies of enemies lie still and unbreathing. _(“You took her from me. You took her and killed her!” Oberyn Martell yells. “And I’ve taken yours in return. It’s only fair, good-brother.”)_ It’s too late, he knows, but still a small part of him dares to hope that all isn’t lost.

Only, of course, that all is lost. Oberyn is many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. _(“I’ve taken yours in return.”)_ Lyanna has been dealt with in precisely the same manner Elia had. Rhaegar struggles to keep the contents of his stomach from spilling out at the sight of her. _(“The Mountain stabbed the little Princess over and over and bashed the baby’s skull in. Princess Elia, he defiled her.” Jon Connington is silent after that for a long time.)_ Shaking hands touch the once white flesh. Stained red, lacerations open and sour, she looks nothing like the woman he left behind.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he tells her, taking her stiff hand in his. She’s cold. As if his regret can breath life back into her. As if mere words can bring back the second son he’s lost. Elia had been ash by the time he got to King’s Landing. His words had meant nothing to her too. “Lyanna, I’m sorry, my love.” He bends his head down, willing the nightmare away, willing her to open her eyes. “Lyanna, please!”

 _(“That little bitch of yours couldn’t even fight by the end. I did her a kindness by slashing her throat. It’s more than your knights did for my sister,” Oberyn spits.)_ For Oberyn it’s always been about Elia. He raises Lyanna’s head gently, mindful of the wound splitting her neck open. Without the scent of decay and the look of horror on her face, she could almost look as if she were sleeping. Wrapping her in his arms, Rhaegar finally allows himself to cry. Loud, long sobs that make him shake.

He’d wanted to give her the world, not lose his along with her. His lips touch her frosty ones. Rhaegar kisses death like he’s never kissed anyone else, wild and raging and too full of emotion. He is not completely careless, but it doesn’t matter, because her waxen flesh cannot bruise. “I’ll not leave you here, love,” he whispers into her mouth, stroking her dark tresses.


	17. say your heart beats - rhaegar t./lyanna s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequal of sorts to the previous chapter.

Great a fool is he who thinks himself above the gods. But an even greater fool is the man who turns his back on his heart. Man may exist without the gods, yet without a heart man dies. Rhaegar traces the tip of his index finger across the stitched holding Lyanna's skin together. "Is this your way of punishing me, my love?" Does she intend to see him suffer for the fate of her House? "I have not wished for bloodshed."

And yet her blood has flown as has that of her brothers and father. Rhaegar takes the inert body into his tender embrace. He wonders briefly if he will ever stop hearing her voice in his head, if he will ever dream of something other than her corpse savaged in a place that was sacred to them. "They tell me that the crypt is ready. I've made sure that you are near the great window, so the light may always shine on you."

It breaks his heart to see her sealed away in stone, forever beyond his reach, as she's always been if he has to admit the truth to himself. Would that he could join her in the eternal sleep. Oh, but sweet Lyanna will wait for him by the gates, he knows. 

They have dressed her in black, a colour of mourning. It is not the maidenly white she's always been fond of, or the blue he loved to see her wearing. Black is his colour. Black and red. Fire and blood. He kisses her then, because if a few hours she'll be going somewhere where he cannot join her. Not yet, no matter how much he wishes to. He already knows that he will be spending most of his time in the crypt from now on. Lyanna he can't leave for long. "Is this what Oberyn referred to when he said that a thousand storms could not bring a drop of water to the desert Elia has left behind?" Existing is not something he wants to do any longer. It is tiresome. "Just until Viserys is old enough, my love. I owe him at least that much."

Lyanna is silent, even in his mind she doesn't speak. He's in a strange sort of limbo, left in he dark when she's this quiet. Rhaegar watches her, seemingly unable to commit her to memory accurately enough by the way he's drinking her image in.

"I had hoped for a three-headed dragon. I shall have to content myself with Viserys and Daenerys, I suppose. But you know, I should have liked to see you holding our child. I named him Jon for you. It's a good northerner name. You approve, do you not? Jon will be next to you."


	18. summer child - jon s./lyanna m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU! Wildling!Jon comes upon Jeor Mormont and one of his nieces...

i. Jon knows the person before him to be a woman even before she screams in a distinctively female voice. “No! Don’t kill him!” she begs, covering the old crow’s body with her own slight frame. His face twists in compassion, but the man she protects would likely wish to die rather than become their prisoner.

His companions are prepared to cut her throat and get her out of the way. He can see the sword coming down, and at the last moment he decides to act, deflecting the blow. “She’s mine.” So instead of having her head cut off, she’s heaved onto his shoulder, struggling and kicking.   

ii. “You southrons are a strange lot,” Jon says, staring into the eyes of his would-be killer. “I spared your life and this is how you replay me.” There is no outrage in his voice, rather it is wonder.

Lyanna Mormont’s eyes sparkle in the dim firelight. She holds onto the knife she’s managed to pull off of some unsuspecting man. “You’ve let him die. My uncle. You’ve murdered him.” There are no tears.

“I did not touch him,” he contradicts her softly. “It was you I fought and you I took as mine.”

“I’m not yours,” Lyanna protests, the weapon closing in on his neck, a breath away from drawing blood.

He kisses her, uncaring of the wound he just inflicts upon himself.

iii. Soon enough she’s wearing one of his furs over her shoulders to protect her from the cold. The only thing she has left of her stay with the crows is a pair of black boots and the piece of a black cloak that she’s strangely protective of. Even so she has no problem sliding under the covers with Jon when the night falls.

There is one thing she is grateful of. The wildling never tries to touch her. Despite the fact that he claims she is his and he may have his will of her if he so wishes, he hasn’t tried even once to do anything more than warm.        

iv. Blood falls on the ground, and Jon skillfully ducks out of the way after having delivered his blow. His opponent falls to the ground. Lyanna has half a mind to tell him to stop as he continues to rain punches down on the man, seemingly preferring his fists to his other weapons. Alas she has enough trouble getting up from the ground, and no real desire to save the man’s life.

When he’s done, Jon climbs off and wipes the blood away from his hands. He pays no attention to the curious onlookers. Instead he steps towards Lyanna and hauls her up. “Get inside,” he growls, his too serious face touched by a sort of wildness she’s not yet seen in him. He pushes her in front of him, the people parting to make way for them.

Later after he’s left her huddled under the furs in their hut, she hears his voice outside. “Anyone daring enough to touch her will share the same fate. She’s mine.” And this time it brings a thrill and not dread.       

v. “Summer child,” Jon whispers in her hair as she shivers even wrapped in his arms. “Southrons.” Though he says it teasingly, without malice.

“I am not of the South.” They’ve had this conversation over and over. She tells him she’s from the North and he dismisses her words with a lazy smile.

“You are a summer child. And a southron.” But he kisses her all the same. “And mine. You are my southron summer child,” he presses on, pulling her tighter against him.

And because she recognizes the truth in his words, Lyanna allows him more than kisses and tentative touches for the first time.


	19. gaia - lyanna s.(/rhaegar t.), oberyn m. and eddard s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The AU in which Oberyn take pity on Lyanna, finding her long before her brother and decides that brothers should be raised together.

i. Eddard accepts the bones of his sister and the child that dies at birth. He chokes on what may be a cry, but keep his face impassive. Oberyn Martell eyes him with something caught between understanding and distrust. “Dorne will have Elia’s bones back and those of her children.”

“Dorne shall,” Eddard promises. “You have my word.” And it is known that Eddard Strak never lies, this sullen, too-serious lord of Winterfell.

Oberyn lets the man go. He heaves a sigh and dares to close him eyes, managing to push back the memory of his sister. Eddard Stark knows the same loss. And at the same time Eddard Stark knows nothing.

_ii. They storm the tower. Oberyn is forced to slay the guards the Prince left for his paramour. But he does not find what he expected. O, indeed, when he sees Lyanna, she is confusingly calm and infuriatingly human. This is no seductress. She is barely out of girlhood, and it seems strange to see her round with child. The child of his good-brother. Dorne is less strict when it comes to such transgressions of the vows, yet Oberyn finds himself affronted._

_The Northener woman gives him a wary stare. “You killed them, the knights?” Her arms cross protectively over her bulging middle. The brother of Aegon is within. Oberyn wavers._

_“They had to die.” That is all the explanation he gives her. Oberyn helps her to her feet, ungentle. “You’ve heard about Elia.”_

_Strangely enough her eyes fill with tears. “We did not mean for it to go as it did. Elia was to be his Visenya and I his Rhaenys. Her son was to sit the throne.” Because Lyanna wanted love out of her affair, not power. And she had been ready to share for she did recognize the right of the first Queen._

iii. “And she died in childbed?” Eddard questions. “The child,” he murmurs. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

“A daughter,” Oberyn says gently enough. “As I understood it, the Prince had wished to revive the three-headed dragon. His youngest would have been Visenya.”

Visenya dead before ever drawing breath and Rhaenys stabbed all over her small body, Aegon with his head shattered. Eddard wonders for s bfrief moment if Lyanna ever realized the magnitude of her own folly. If Rhaegar Targaryen ever thought of what his actions would bring about.  

“She was brave,” Oberyn offers in a small measure of odd comfort. Eddard cannot bear to look into his eyes.

_iv. "Don’t send me back,” Lyanna begs, kneeling before Oberyn, hands fisting into his tunic. “They will kill this child too. You owe me nothing, you have the right to hate me, but at the very least save my baby. Please. I’ll do anything.” And still she is calm._

_“You give up any claim on the throne? You deny that Rhaegar’s blood flows through his veins?” Is she willing to give up even that slim change at power?_

_“I only want to save my child’s life,” she says. She allows them to place her into a wheelhouse. She never protest when Oberyn joins her._

_“You shall be birthing the child anytime now. Elia is dead, so is Rhaegar. So is Rhaenys. But not the younger, Aegon. If you keep him alive your child shall live too.”_

v. Lyanna sits in her rooms, far away from her brother. She holds in her arms the boy with silver hair and soft violet eyes. He looks like Rhaegar. She almost bursts into tears as the babe suckles. It is her fault too that he’s been left without a mother and a father. That he’s left without what is rightfully his. “I will take good care of you,” she promises. “I will love you as if you were my own. I shall make no difference between yourself and your sibling.” Lyanna is decided to make his life as good as she may. She’s been given this chance to repent. “By the Old Gods and the New, I shall be a good mother to you.”

Her child kicks at her middle as if in agreement with her words. Lyanna smiles softly. This is far from what she’s expected her life to be, but it is all she gets because of her own foolishness. 


	20. set adrift - jon s/lyanna m.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Lyanna after the war. Slight AU! 
> 
> Can I just say that I absolutely love this pairing for no comprehensible reason?

It’s the way her heart beats against her ribcage, wild, untamed; it must be why it needs to be caged. It’s the way her arms find their way around him somehow and the way she presses herself to him in the middle of the night, not for lust, but for companionship. It’s the way she breaths against his neck, warm and alive. It’s the way her eyes are dark and not impossibly light; it’s the way she’s utterly, perfectly human even when she sheds this skin for another.

Jon rests his head on her chest. He wants to tell her that she’s amazing and he loves her. But the words get stuck in his throat. _I love you. I love you. I utterly, madly, irrevocably love you._ Instead he listens to her heart beating a steady rhythm. He wants to ask her for more than light kisses on his cheek and fingers playfully tangled in his hair. _I need you, so, please, please…_

She bends knee to Rickon. _Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is STARK._ She and her surviving sister. Jon looks at her and can’t tare his gaze away. Sansa Stark _Tyrell now_ smiles at the Mormont women. Her husband at her side watches the procession quietly. If any of the two notice that Jon is not wholly attentive they do not say a thing.

“Take care of our brother,” Sansa tells him once they are outside. “I believe you can do it, brother.” The last word comes out a little hesitant.

“Of course.” But his mind is elsewhere, inside with Lyanna who has taken Rickon to his chambers. “I shall not fail, sister.”

 _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He wants to whisper the words in her ear and see the look on her face. Lyanna Mormont laughs at something one of her sisters says. Jon knows he is being greedy, but he’s half-known what it is to have her, _fingers tangled in his hair and warm cheeks pressed to his_ , and he cannot let go.

“Is it different from how you remember it? Winterfell?” Lyanna sits herself next to him. “I’ve never been to Wintefell before.”

Before the war, she means. Before, when he was just a bastard, before, but after he had joined the Watch. “A bit, but for the most part Sansa had remodelled it the same.”

 _Dark hair, lighter than his own, slipping between his fingers, warm eyes and a quiet voice. They lie together underneath the furs, shaking to the bones, both cold and frightened._ She doesn’t look so much like the warrior he saw on the Wall back when she was four-and-ten, but Jon supposes it is the dress and the fact that she has filled out somewhat. He wants to capture this moment. _Her hand slips in his and her lips move against his cheek. He can’t hear what she’s saying. Perhaps she prays._

“I like it,” Lyanna says, bringing Jon out of his thought.

“Stay.” Jon feels her hand slipping in his and he squeezes it gently. “Stay here then.”  


	21. our children - ned s./lady stoneheart

Scars mar her face and her once lovely red hair is now white, not the silver of Targaryens but white, white, white. Eddard looks at this stranger with his wife’s face. ”Cat.” His hands reach for her. “Cat.” There a slash cutting her throat open. “What have they done to you, my love?” But she looks right through him, her frame comes in contact with his, and the she passes right through the shadow of him. “Cat.”

Eddard turns around. They have destroyed her. He wants to wrap his arms around her – to be wrapped in her arms – and have her talk to him – and talk to her. “Cat.” Why can he not say anything else? Why does she not see him?

Lady Stoneheart. The name echoes through his mind. “Lady Stoneheart!” And as if he’s managed to break some sort of spell, she whirls around, pale flesh stained red. Her eyes grow wide.

“Ned.” Her hand has gone to her throat and she hisses the word rather than speaks it, but Eddard understands her clearly. “Ned!” The second time it is a sob, or as close to it as this woman can manage. “Need, our sweet babes.” And this is desperation. “Ned, our children.”

“Our children,” he repeats. “Our children.” And so he lingers awhile longer.


	22. for what was lost - bael the bard/unknown stark

Bael sinks to his knees in the dank, dark crypt, holding the woman’s waist between powerful hands. “Come with me.” It is a selfish thing to ask of her. This kneeler woman with eyes of steel and sharp grins and dreams, dreams underneath her too-serious face. ”We can live together, free. Beyond the wall.”  Her small, lithe form trembles at the half-promise. He can see the longing in her face. So close, he is so close.

He glides his hands along her naked hips, the joy of her body calling to him again. She allows him to pull her atop, legs parting to make way for him. Her head is buried in his neck, her breathing coming short. “I will teach you the ways of the free men.” She is wound up around him, warm and sweet and if pleasure could kill, Bael wouldn’t mind so long as it comes by her hands. Nay, he thinks, he would die for this woman, but he would rather live for – with – her. “Be mine.”

“I am yours,” she whispers against his skin, her voice a soft caress. His seed runs along the inside of her thigh and onto his own. “By the old gods, I am yours.” Her mouth seeks his hungrily. And again she begs with her body to be fashioned into something of his own making. “But I am a Stark also. I belong to Winterfell as well.”

That he has to share her with the walls and ambitions of her father, Bael smarts at it and the anger swells and this time it is the ground against her back and not his hands. This time his hips punish her unwillingness and his mouth plunders and ravages. However much she belongs to him, she doesn’t  and he wants her so much he thinks he might burst, filled as he is with need. He thought that one taste of her would quell his desire. But once he’s taken her, droplets of blood falling onto the ground, he only grows to crave her more. “What do I have to do for you to follow me beyond the wall?”

.

.

.

“If it is a daughter, I shall join you,” she tells him, lying onto him, her once tiny waist slightly expanded. “If it is a son, I must stay and see him the proper lord when my father dies. “

Bael prays for a daughter. He prays they only have daughters, in fact. Daughters with her hair, eyes, sharp smiles and too-serious faces. How can he bear to let her go now, after he’s known the feel of her against him when they sleep? How can he let her go without tearing his heart to shreds? Gods forgive him, but he would sling her over his shoulders and see her out of this place with her consent or without. And yet the thought of such fine eyes laying blame on him makes a sharp pain in his chest.

.

.

.

She gives him a son in the end. Proud mother, the she-wolf cradles the babe to her breast watching the infant suckle. “A boy, a lord for my home.”

And just like that understanding dawns upon Bael. He loves her, he loves her so much, yet she loves her home. She would do anything for her home. “Why did you come with me here?” Gods damn it. Angered again, he stands up and moves away from her.

That very night he leaves, swearing to himself that he will never come back. The harsh wind cuts his cheeks, just like her tears had when she begged him to stay awhile longer. “I do love you. Come back to me.” Never. Bael promises her in his grief. “Never again will I let you fool me, woman. “

.

.

.

Five years past, Bael finds himself again in her presence. She is the Lady of Winterfell, acting as regent to her son. Bael does not want to hear about the child or see him. If he looks upon the boy’s face, he will love him and this man desperately wants to cling to his bitterness and his pain. So he takes his woman roughly and seals her mouth close with kisses unnumbered.

But as luck would have it, he wakes in the middle of the night to the creaking of the door and a pair of wide eyes looking upon the stranger in the house. His son looks like his mother as far as eyes and mouth go, but the rest of him is Bael. His heart squeezes in his chest and he makes a sign for the child to be quiet. The boy climbs into the bed and under the covers.

“Are you my father?”

.

.

.

They fight upon snow and ice, father and son clash swords. Bael loses on purpose, of course. He can’t bring himself to plunge the sword into the chest of this kneeler. It’s those eyes and that face that has grown too-serious.

The boy, though, has no compunction about bringing down his sword. Bael smiles sadly. This is his seed and blood, this is what was born out of his love for her. All this for her. “Do it!” And he feels the pain of it briefly.

In his mind he can see her smile and her eyes light up, and wistfully he wonders what could have been had it been a girl that was born to them.            


	23. trice crown - lyanna s.

Lyanna rocks her son gently and hums a lullaby. She feels drained. She is in pain. And yet the feel of her babe gives her strength to hold on just a little longer. “My little Jon, mother loves you.” She does. It is a strange thing that only days ago she was responsible for herself and now she holds a second life. “The midwife tells I shall not be here much longer, my darling.” Yet she’s been telling Lyanna thus for days now. “I want so much to watch you grow into a fine, young man.” She would have wished for Rhaegar to see it too. “But more than that, I want you happy.”

She holds a king with no crown in her arms. “Trice king,” she whispers against his dark curls. In his veins runs the blood of three kings. The Targaryen blood of his father names him king of a torn realm. From her, she has the ice of the King in the North and, also, the blood of a King-Beyond-the-Wall if songs are to be believed. “Three kings.” Three heads of the Dragon. “And yet the throne shall never be yours.” So long as Rhaegar’s children with Elia still breathe, Jon will remain prince. Lyanna does not bemoan that. She is happy to know him safe as prince. “I shall watch over you.”

It is Ser Arthur that brings her news of Rhaegar’s demise and of the dearth of Elia’s children. He does not have to say much to make her understand and fear. And it is then that strength leaves her and holding her three-times-king becomes a burden so hard to bear.

 _“Promise me, Ned…”_        


	24. dawn of an age - lyanna m./jon s.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For KBlack25 who loves my Jon and Lyanna drabbles. I hope you like this one too. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU. Wildling!Jon and Lady!Lyanna. Enjoy!

i. The wind howls and shakes the skins at the entrance, Lyanna burrows deeper into Jon, her back against his front, and feels her cheeks flush as flesh touches flesh. She lifts her head gingerly and over her shoulder looks to the entrance. There is nothing to be seen. The young woman shakes her head. ‘Tis folly. Jon has kept them safe up to now and he will continue to do so. “Just the wind,” she whispers against his skin, settling down once more. There is something about the days becoming shorter and the weather colder and colder still.

She must have disturbed her partner somehow, for Jon wakes with a groan, the arm wrapped around her coiling harder. “Why do you not sleep?” he asks, voice heavy still.

“Something woke me,” Lyanna replies, shifting, trying to draw herself away. His snarl stops her sort and her progress is unravelled by a tug of his arm. Pressed even tighter against him, Lyanna shudders. His hand trails down her back. “I shall find sleep again.”

“You shall,” Jon agrees. He slips inside of her like a sword finding sheath. Lyanna gives a whimper, of pain or pleasure, it is unclear. Jon other arm wraps around her too, but his fingers come up to the swell of her breast. “Does the cold bother you?”

“Nay.” And then he starts moving against her. How can she be cold when she sleeps with her body glued to his? He is much like a furnace, forever warm, hot underneath her fingertips, against her skin. Now his heat surges through her. “One day we’ll melt the snow,” she breaths out.

Smooth lips press against her neck and shoulder. He quickens his pace, angling her head to reach her lips. “So long as it is you and I.”

ii. Occasional clashes come to pass among the Wildlings. Lyanna has learned that for the much part they are content to keep to their borders, but sometimes they raid on neighbours. None think too harshly on it. It is the way of things.

She washes the wound on Jon’s back with care as she stretches against the furs. “Woman, it is nothing to be worried over.” He says he’s had worse. To Lyanna it doesn’t signify. “You cry over the likes of this cut and you’ll make me look weak.”

The cut, as he refers to it, is a long slash against his back. It is not a simple graze, having some depth to it. “I am not crying,” she protests, pressing the cloth a bit too hard against his back. She doesn’t apologise. Jon hisses in discomfort, but more to chide her than to express pain. “I only want you to be well.”

iii. It is the soft cry that alerts Lyanna of the intruder. The sound is weak and shrill. Lyanna takes a dagger and heads to the back of the hut. She keeps the weapon raised, prepared to strike at the first sign of danger. She does not expect what she finds.

There, underneath a clump of straw is a white ball of fur. It snarls at her approach, small red eyes taking her in. Lyanna crouches to the ground. A wolf. Or something the like. It is so small. Lyanna crouches and places the dagger on the ground. She snaps forward and catches the beast between her palms. It squirms against her hold and it takes settling the animal to her chest to obtain its cooperation. “All is well, little one, I shan’t hurt you.” She wonders briefly where the mother is. There are specks of dries blood on the fur, so Lyanna think the she-wolf is long gone at any rate. “I’ll care for you.”

She brings the wolf into her house. Jon is yet at the hunt. He’ll be back later, but by then Lyanna hopes the guest will have settled in. She searches for the milk and fills a small bowl of it. The poor darling must be hungry. Kneeling she places the animal on her lap. A boy, she notices. He sniffles at the food, dips his tongue in to taste and after deeming it appropriate drinks his fill. Lyanna pates the white fur of his back.

iv. "You are mad,” Jon accuses her when he find her with the beast on her lap. Lyanna circles her hands protectively around the pup. Her glare doesn’t seem to affect Jon much. “You will kill us.”

“Not if we raise him right.” Her eyes beg him to reconsider. “Please, Jon. He is just a pup. He’ll die out there if we send him away.”

Jon grumbles. His eyes narrow at the red-stare of the wolf. How is it that this woman has him bending over to please her? “Fine. But at the first sign if trouble, I’m taking its head off.”

“It is a he.” Lyanna ruffles the fur on the little beast and Jon let out a small growl. “You should name him.” Her suggestion is met with resistance. Later, the pup crawl from the corner under the covers and Jon wakes with a curse upon his lips. The ball of fur is content where it sits. “Curse you and your stupid pet,” Jon mumbles, his eyes throwing danger to Lyanna’s sleeping face.

v. Cut flesh and impossibly blue eyes. Lyanna takes in the sight of a man who had disappeared days ago. “Vargho,” she says, now remembering his name. “We were worried for you.” He does not reply, staring straight ahead. “Vargho,” Lyanna tries again, stepping closer to him.

Unexpectedly the man jumps at her, thick fingers finding her neck and squeezing. She tries to scream but it’s already too late. All she manages to do is chokes out a weak sound. Lyanna pushes against the man. One hand searches for the dagger she carries with her. The lack of air makes her hazy. Her small hand grips the cool metal and she brings it, with all the force she can muster, down upon Vargho’s head. It slashes through the skin and bone breaks, yet he does not let go.

A growl comes from behind her, and suddenly she’s on the ground, free. Ghost has jumped upon the foul creature, fangs tearing into him. Jon yells something and the direwolf draws back. Lyanna is picked up and she can make out the men screaming fire.

“And you did not want him,” Lyanna speaks quietly. “I told you we should keep him.” Ghost bounds up to them, sniffing at Jon’s legs.

Jon simply clutches her tighter to his chest, eyes checking her for wounds. “He has his uses,” the man admits when her stare does not go away from him. Then he looks to Ghost. “Well done, boy.” His attention snaps back to his woman. “Can you walk?”

Nodding solemnly, Lyanna waits for him to place her back on her feet. “I am fine. You go here just in time.” Shaken. Scared. And sore-throated. Otherwise she is fine. “What was that?”

“Silly summer child,” Jon scoffs. “This is why you should have never left that damned wall.” Alas his hands push her into a scorching kiss. Lyanna shudders helplessly. “Don’t leave my side,” he tells her seriously. Turning to the people that have gathered, Jon gives order that they are to move southwards.


	25. moral ambiguity - lyanna s./rhaegar t./elia m.

Lyanna gathers her clothes, pulling them on hastily. She doesn’t have the time to look at the sleeping man any longer – she never has any time. There is a small bruise around her wrist from where Rhaegar has gripped the previous evening. Lyanna stares at a heedful of silver tresses and smiles. She leans over, her bra still undone and kisses his cheek, noting the growth of wiry, prickly facial hair.

As always she leaves as quietly as possible, mindful of Rhaenys and her brother, Aegon, still being asleep. It’s four thirty in the morning. Her own son won’t be awake for a few hours yet, but Lyanna can’t stand to be away any longer.

…

_Robert stinks of alcohol, and his eyes glint in a way that makes Lyanna shiver. “Whatever you want to tell me can wait until morning, Robert. Go before one of my brothers wakes and find you here.” She means to scare him away, she means to never have him back here again._

_It’s a little over a month into their relationship and the boy is already making demands. “What the hell? I ask you for this one thing, just to come with me for a walk, and you get like this?” He reaches out for her, hand grabbing sloppily at her shoulder. “Fuck this.” His mouth slams against hers without care. Lyanna shrieks, but she knows there will be no saviour for her. In truth her brothers are not home and her parents won’t be back for awhile yet. ___

_“Please, Robert. You’re drunk,” she tries to dissuade him between rough kisses and hard pulling. Lyanna pushes against his frame, and her trashing must have gotten him angry because he delivers a stinging slap to her face and murmurs a litany of curses. “Someone help! Please help!” ___

_It’s the middle of the night and she doesn’t expect an answer. Too scared to think, Lyanna starts praying to whoever is listening. ___

_The gods must have been in a good mood because quite suddenly a flash of light hits her face. “What is going on here?” a deep, harsh voice demands. The bark of this unknown man sound divine to Lyanna’s ears. ___

_“Please help!” she yells over the roaring of her blood. Robert, reacting at the same time, doesn’t even bother turning around when he speaks, “This doesn’t concern you. Walk away.” ___

_The stranger, whoever he is – Lyanna can’t see that well in the dark and the flashlight has left her momentarily blind anyway – jumps the fence and hauls Robert off of her. The skirmish that ensues ends with Robert knocked flat on his back and the police coming at her house. ___

…

Entering her small apartment, Lyanna is surprised when the phone in her pocket starts buzzing. She takes it out and shakes her head gently but answers anyway.”You should be asleep. You have work tomorrow.”

“So do you,” comes the answer. “Couldn’t you just wake me up? Tell me you were leaving?”

“When you sleeping so peacefully? It would’ve broken my heart.” She sits at the table, hoping her some does not wake up. Sometimes the door creeks terribly.

…

_His name is Rhaegar Targaryen and his wife is dying. Elia Targaryen – formerly Martell – looks Lyanna over. She smiles a kind smile and offers her a sweet. “Rhaenys would get sick on these, she never knows when to stop.”_

_“I’m sorry for coming over like this,” Lyanna starts, but she gets distracted by the scarf on the woman’s head. It’s so colourful, morbidly inappropriate. “I know it’s rude.” She’s still staring._

_“Oh, pish!” Elia hands her a cup of tea. “I think it’s nice of you to have come. Usually I don’t get much company.”  
Rhargar chooses that moment to return home. His look is one of total surprise. Not even once does he look at Elia. “Miss Stark.” Lyanna. _

_Sitting up quite abruptly, Lyanna nearly spills the tea. “I came to thank you, sir.” It feels like she’s defending herself against some charges he hasn’t even laid out yet. “So, thank you, for saving my life.”_

_“It’s good to see you are well, miss Stark.” Rhaegar turns his attention to his wife, coming closer and dropping a kiss to her cheek. “Elia.”_

_Strangely enough, Lyanna doesn’t feel the urge to turn away. She ends up staying for dinner. She even plays a few games with Rhaenys. ___

…

“You could have stayed longer?” Rhaegar doesn’t sound hiding, but Lyanna knows exactly what his words are. “Do you have classes today?”

“Yes,” she replies softly. “I should be done by two.”

“I’ll pick you up,” he tells her. “Should we take the children to the park?”

…

_It starts out innocently enough. Lyanna nurse a crush. It’s only natural, she tells herself. Rhaegar Targaryen has saved her life. Of course she wants to repay him somehow. And how better than being a comfort to Elia?_

_“I’m pregnant,” the older woman lets it slip as they are having tea in the back garden. “I’m having a baby.”_

_“But the chemo.” Lyanna stares at the woman in fear. “You can’t get your treatment like this.”  
Rhaegar reacts much like her but Elia is unmoved. “I want this baby, Rhaegar.” She accepts her husband’s embrace and Lyanna retreats to another room. _

_For reasons unknown her heart is pounding in her chest. Lyanna shakes away the dark thoughts. ___


	26. roots - jon s./lyanna m.(/ tommen b.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because they are bound to repeat history...if in a slightly altered form.

Jon knows it is wrong. He knows it goes against his vows – but he’s broken them before. He shouldn’t be doing this. He shouldn’t, shouldn’t, _shouldn’t_. But he does it either way – he’s done it before and maybe that is why the sin feels comfortable, like an old friends. The only difference is that his partner in crime is right there with him, knowing that what she does it not right.

And now he cannot untaste her, wipe her away from his memory and go on as if she does not exist. As if this has not been happening on a regular basis.

Lyanna’s nails drag against the skin of his back, her lips against his ear releasing words he cannot understand. Jon is too drunk on her to care. “Mine, mine, _mine_.” The mantra is both on his lips and in his mind. Lyanna agrees, her voice atremble.

 _Yes_ and _yours_ and _tonight_. Because it’s never longer than these few hours in her chambers. It’s never better than in her embrace, stealing kisses in the shadows. Because, because, _because_. Because Jon has never thought he’d ever feel this way about a woman again. And here he is, breaking his vows in the sweetness of her skin and the scented tresses crushed betwixt his fingers.

“Gods, how _I love you_.” And he wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes that East wasn’t quite so close to North. Yet it is in his very nature – _bastard_ – to do what he’s done. Snow or Blackfyre. Black or White. It is all the same. Jon vows are silenced for a short while in the willing warmth of a woman’s affections.

The South stands aside, unwilling to see the bonds. King Tommen Baratheon follows his father – the one that gave him his name, not the one that put him in his mother’s womb – and takes a Queen from the North. He wears the crown. He swings the swords. And Jon ought to be better, to know better. East and North had tried this many times with unfortunate results.

Lyanna Mormont Baratheon gazes at him with eyes that beg. ”Don’t. _Only death this way lies_.” And history is a never-ending cycle, all mistakes are – sometimes voluntarily – repeated.

Then he is dead and has been for many years now.


	27. high hopes - sansa s./willas t. and jon s.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU! in which not all is well, but siblings stick together anyway.
> 
> Very loosely inspired by Kodaline's "High Hopes" (which features Davos Seaworth. I'm not joking.)

Jon knows she is Sansa. Alayne Stone may have brown hair, but the roots are red, and he sees that. Her eyes are Tully blue. Her mouth curves into a smile like Lady Catelyn’s. Robb is dead. Bran, Arya and Rickon are nowhere to be found. And Sansa – Sansa who goes by Alayne Stone – holds a small bundle in her arms.

The babe is small are red-faced still, or maybe it is the cold that reddens his cheeks. Red hair curls in rich ringlets. “What is his name?”

“Leyton,” Sansa, or should he call her Alayne, replies, eyes staring at the corpse on the bed. “Snow,” she adds after a brief silence. “Leyton Snow.” She rocks the babe gently, a child with a child. “He was going to marry me.”

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Jon wonders how she can be so sure of it. But Sansa explains it even without him asking. “I had such high hopes when he called me his little wolf.”

Leyton fusses in her arms, dark eyes reminiscent of his father’s. “Leyton Stark,” Jon says moments later. He falls on one knee. “The North awaits its Queen. Do they know?”

“Only Willas knew.” Sansa waits for Jon to get up before giving him the babe. She pulls the sheets over the dead man. “Take me home, Jon.”


	28. gone now - lyanna s. and arthur d.

Lyanna stood before the window, her head resting on her hands. The Dornish sun was merciless as it had ever been, burning whatever its rays touched. The young woman gave a long sigh. She turned to look at the wooden crib that had been placed in the shades. Her babe slept, obvious to the problems which she faced. 

There were times when she didn’t quite know why she was here.

Nay, that was not true. Lyanna did know why. Just the reasoning behind her actions eluded her at times.

But if she thought about it – sat down and really thought about it – she could find some sort of logic. A naïve way of thinking at its best. A destructive force at its worst. Why hadn’t she chosen the safe path? Love and be silent. That was what she should have done. There were times when she hated herself for it. For not being strong enough to refuse what she’d had no business going after. 

And then there were times when she felt that she had done right. At least for her. Should she have accepted a life she did not want when she had means of escaping it? Lyanna though a moment upon Robert. His smile. His blue eyes. His boldness. His paramours. His bastards. Why had she refused the man’s affections? Could she not have lived with her eyes closed? Ignoring the whispers, the seductive smiles, the double-meaning of every exchange.

Robert had loved her, he probably still did. He would marry her even as she was. Lyanna’s eyes were drawn again to the crib. It rocked gently. The babe slept on, unbothered by her gaze lingering. Robert loved her. But he hated Rhaegar just as much, if not doubly more. And her boy was half Rhaegar. In Elia’s children he’d seen only the Dragon’s blood. He would not see the Wolf in her child no matter how she pleaded. Lyanna knew she could demand that the guards take her back, but she would be a child murderer in that event. Worse still, a slayer of her own kin.

Did another life change anything? One more death to the others. Her father’s blood had spilled already, her brother’s blood too. A few more drops; what did it matter at this point? Better her than anyone else. Rhaenys had been stabbed over and over again. Aegon’s skull had been smashed to a wall. At least Lyanna would not give her child such a death. She would be careful. Others would show no such mercy, no such concern. They would treat the person she loved most like common trash. Lyanna could not allow that.

She could do nothing for others. But this she had the power to do. 

Love was as deadly as any knife, the Northerner had learned. An embrace and a kiss, a whisper and a touch. Only poison could match love in the sweetness. A warm hold. Babes were fragile. It would be enough to let her darling sleep on her chest.   
The door opened with a small sound. Ser Arthur stepped over the threshold. “My lady, have you thought about what you will write to them?”

Turning to the man, Lyanna frowned. “I will write nothing,” she told him decisively. “What can I say now? That I am sorry? That I wish to be taken back?”

“You could,” he replied ever placidly. Light purple eyes took in her appearance. “What other choice do you have?”  
Death, she thought sharply. The moment passed. “I cannot. I will not. My babe,” she protested, taking a few steps towards him. “You yourself told me about Princess Elia’s children, Ser. You think to convince me of abandoning the only one that matters to me any longer.”

“And your brother?” Ser Dayne was the one to tell her hurtful truths. Lyanna wondered at the small twinge of hate. 

“Ned.” The name felt strange on her lips. It had been so long since she’d spoken it. “Poor Ned.” Like words could wash away her own guilt. “He will do as he’s done until now. He’ll survive. No matter what, he’ll survive.” As if mere words could bring back together all that she’d broken. “Us Starks are tougher than we look.”

His smile seemed an agreement. “So you will not.” He too glanced towards the crib. 

“Could I sail to Essos from here? Have I any chance?” Rhaegar hadn’t left money. So sure had her Prince been of his victory that he left her only a promise of his return. But Lyanna had some jewellery pieces. She could supposedly sell those and buy a place on a ship. “Would you come with me?”

Why would she ask him that? Ser Dayne, Ser Whent and Ser Hightower, they had been with her on this journey. She supposed it was habit by now to expect their presence. Still, they were sworn to the king. Whoever would take the Throne that was.

“Or will you return to King’s Landing?” Could these knights, friends of Rhaegar’s, disregard his death and turn to serve the man that killed him? A Kingsguard was sworn to the king. Should it matter he bore the name Baratheon, and not Targaryen? Lyanna waited for an answer.

“That depends on who the king is,” he responded. “As of now Westeros has two claimants to its throne. The Kingsguard can only serve one king.”

“What mean you?” Lyanna sat down, suddenly tired. She was ages older than she should have been. “Viserys? He has declared for the throne?” The boy would be killed.

“Nay, but you think those who support his House will not push him to it? Rhaegar is gone, his father is dead. The boy is next in line.” The explanation did little to assuage Lyanna’s anxiety. But it was the truth.

She hadn’t rightly know Rhaegar’s brother. And her own brother and father had died on the King’s order. Should the potential death of the boy not feel like retribution to her? Why then did she wish for his survival? 

Perhaps because logic had fled her mind a long time ago.


	29. in the dark - lyanna m., jon s. and coldhands

Blood burns hot. Hotter than fire, hotter than the frigid burn of ice. The blood on her hands stains the white of the fresh snow. Lyanna presses her hand against the gash, blood sliding between her fingers. The blade too is covered in red. 

“There can only be one queen.” Coldhands climbs atop his elk. He extends one blackened hand. 

“The Queen of Winter,” she murmurs.

“The warmth of a beating heart’s blood is poison to her.” Black and red touch. “Capable warriors are a necessity.”

Jon wraps her wound. He doesn’t say anything. They both know how this ends. The three-eyed crow is perched on his high branch, looking down at them. If it is an illusion or not, it matters little. The truth of it is that a song of ice and fire still needs to be sung.


	30. once a queen - jaehaera t./aegon iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now improved, with images.

Jaehaera feels the weight of the crown when it is placed on her head by the High Septon as she kneels before him and Aegon. She feels the heat of her husband’s stare and the burn is in no way pleasant. Aegon will never forget his mother’s death, and whatever pity he has for his young wife he will never forgive her for being the daughter of his mother’s killer.

She can only do so much to keep her tears in check. She is here to bring peace. As if the straight faced man marrying her will magically wash away the blood. As if a heart once broken can be put back together with a few words.

Queen Jaehaera is as grim faced as her husband. They make a striking pair. Or come close enough to it for the guests to applaud loud and long. “Long live the King! Love live the Queen!” Long live. Long live. “Long may they prosper!” The cheer is almost deafening.

Jaehaera the child would have dipped her chin in demurely, a smile playing on her lips. Queen Jaehaera walks down the steps, her arm around Aegon’s. She prays that he is merciful. She prays that he has enough pity left in him for a girl who was the princess to his knight when his sword was still a wooden stick.

* * *

                                         


	31. perspectives - jaehaera t./aegon III/daenaera v.

Aegon brushes his fingers through her hair, his hips moving languidly now. This lips kiss along her collarbone. The soft sound of her pleasure barely reaches his ears. He loves and hates her at the same time. Two contrary passions mingle inside of his, setting his blood on fire every time his eyes land on her. Half the time he wants to be sweet to her, a good husband to her good wife, but the other half, he wants her to feel even just a fraction of his pain. Not physically. Aegon would not strike a woman – one such as she, frail and meek. There are other ways.

His hand slides between her legs, fingers seeking out that space where they are joined. She keens at his touch, blunt nails digging into his shoulders. “Aegon,” she breathes against the top of his bent head. “Aegon.” Aegon. Aegon. Gods! He feels the quiver of her thighs, but he doesn’t increase his pace. Nay, he waits for her to speak again. He wants her to be as desperate as he feels when she enters a room but does not stay at the side of anyone but the Hand, Prince Viserys. So he makes sure the Velaryon girl is somewhere close at hand. Much like his namesake he carries a disproportionate love for these two women in his life. “Aegon,” she calls again, this time with some urgency. 

The Velaryon girl, Aegon closes his eyes in thought, body coming to a still. Tall and golden, buxom and sturdy. A mother of many sons, hopefully. Jaehaera is of another ilk. She is still very much in the way she was the year he wedded her, young and fresh-looking with lithe limbs. The Maesters are sceptical about her chances of carrying a child well. And indeed to this day she’s not taken his seed for the nights he’s lain with her.

*************************************************************************************************************************

Jaehaera watches Aegon sleep. She doesn’t understand why he insists on spending all these nights with her. The first Queen is not as foolish as many suppose her. Daenaera is carrying her second babe, little Daeron having just been weaned. He could well find his pleasure elsewhere, she won’t produce him any child. The Maesters think she is barren. A suitable punishment, some whisper, for her father’s wretchedness. 

She leaves the bed silently. The moon has risen high, full and bright. Instinctively her hand travels to her stomach and tears gather in her eyes. She is guilty, very guilty of being her father’s daughter. Jaehaera looks up with more attention. The clouds are gathering too. It looks like it’ll rain soon. The perfect weather to be safely ensconced in bed, under thick blankets. 

Strong arms, with sinewy muscles, wrap around her middle, pulling her back into a warm body she knows perhaps even better than her own. Her fingers trace the scar that runs along his right arms, now barely visible. “My lord, you do not sleep? The hour is late.”

“For you also,” is his reply. Aegon turns her around and kisses her lips. He finds it easy to lift her off her feet and push his way inside of her. Jaehaera acquiesces to his treatment of her with her usual submissiveness. 

*************************************************************************************************************************

Viserys eyes her with distrust when she takes Daeron to sit on her lap. “I have heard Morghul is in a deplorable state.”  
Her dragon is ill. “The maesters are doing what they can for him.” Her breast swells with the beast’s pain. “Daeron, my little Prince,” she admonishes gently when the child pulls on her unbound hair. Daeron pains her no mind, so her own attention returns to Viserys.

He is the one who placed Daenaera Velaryon in his brother’s path, explaining to the King the pressing need for an heir. She has not forgotten that. Yet she will not put herself in harm’s way by offending the man. Viserys has sway over her husband and her very life is in the man’s hands, dependent on his caprices. 

Her lord and master enters with sure steps. He gives one look to his brother, a silent order to leave, and has his son taken back to the nursery. “My lord.” There are a thousand unspoken questions in her greeting, but Aegon is well pleased to order even her ladies to leave.

“You break your fast with my brother?” Wide, rough hands caress her face. 

“And with your son,” she adds in that manner she knows will bring a reaction out of him. “I did not wish to be a burden to you, knowing you must look after the realm. I do not mean to cling to your sleeve and tire you further.” His hands slide down to her neck, supple skin growing taut under his fingertips. Jaehaera welcomes the pressure.


	32. blood runs stale - gwyneth y./quentyn m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom, what are you doing? Why is there not more Quentyn/Gwyneth around?

Every day, after escaping her Septa’s watchful eye, after she needs no longer provide entertainment in her father’s hall, Gwyneth Yornwood stands atop the highest cliff and watches for the sails of a galley, hoping in her heart that Quentyn return on it. She stares long and hard after the telltale sign of an approaching ship, keen eyes not missing a detail.

And every day her heart becomes heavy and painful when the sun sets and no sign of a ship appears. She runs back to her father’s keep and into the small sept where she prays to the gods. She prays for her brother’s safety, his companions’ wellbeing and she begs the gods to keep Quentyn in good health. This she asks of them in short, quick breath, fearing that the switch awaits her if she is caught.

Hurrying up the stairs, Gwynethe slips under the covers, next to her bed mate, Myrra. And then she closes her eyes and dreams sweet dreams of a kind Prince who makes her heart beat faster. In these dreams his sober features are relaxed. He looks happy as he drapes a cloak the colour of oranges around her shoulder and the sun kisses them both.


	33. gets under your skin - jaehaera t./aegon iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Hanhreus who requested more Jaehaera/Aegon III. It's always my pleasure to take such requests.

Jaehaera often finds herself wondering if her King remembers how to smile. Can he turn his lips in a crescent that expresses joy, or even amusement? The man sits across from her at the table, studiously avoiding her gaze. He concentrates on his food, but the way he chews indicates that it could have as well been ashes in his plate and he would have been just as well pleased with those. She swallows the piece of meat in a mirror of her husband’s actions but her mind is a thousand miles away.

He knew how to smile when she was a little girl. He knew how to laugh as well. She remembers the warmth of those smiles. Jaehaera sees the young boy he’d once been and her chest tightens with the joy-pain of it. He caught her once as she was about to fall. He had been nigh seven years of age. She had had four years then. Their grandfather had still been alive at that time.

“Why do you smile, my lady?” his voice breaks through the fog of her thoughts. Jaehaera looks up. He watches her with eyes like two chips of ice. She wonders if her face gives anything away. It is not likely for he feels the need to ask again, “What amuses you?”

“I-“ she begins and then stops. She cannot tell him. Her lips part as if to give in a reason or buy herself more time. Jaehaera sighs. He eyes her still, the slightest hint of contempt hidden behind a wall of cold curtsey. She drops her head and a plate of stewed vegetables appears in front of her. Green peas catch her eye. “You are not partial to peas.” She looks up.

Something shifts in his gaze. They had attended a banquet, sometime before their grandfather’s death and they’d been served pea soup amongst others. “You remember.” He does not smile and he does not look pleased. How does he feel?

“How could I forget?” Her voice is strained. She hates herself for that. It had been one of the last moments of carefree happiness. She scoops the peas on her plate. “Threat averted.” When they were children she helped him make the bowl of soup disappear. “I don’t know if I managed to get all of them.”

Aegon remains silent. He studies her now and his eyes have lost some of their chill. He extends his hand and takes his own spoon to the plate of vegetables. He clears the parsnip away without a word. He is diligent. Jaehaera hides the smile that threatens to bloom on her face. Parsnip does not agree with her.

They continue their meal in silence that is if not amiable, not an arrow to her heart. Now she really is sure her husband does not remember how to smile. It is too painful for him. He used to smile and laugh when his mother was alive. That woman could make anyone smile. Jaehaera lifts a spoonful of peas to her lips and shudders when she catches a bit of the Dornish peppers she has been trying to avoid of late. Her mouth burns and her eyes water. She cannot possibly spit the vile thing out. Jaehaera swallows. With difficulty.

Her husband is watching her with curiosity again. She ignores the urge to stare back. Instead she wraps her fingers around her cup of sweet wine. His gaze is insistent. A blush burns her cheeks. Is it the peppers or the attention? Jaehaera gives up trying to find out. She licks her lips and takes a sip of the wine.

“Is aught amiss?” he finally asks. She wants his attention. She needs more than the polite indifference he graces her with most times.

“Nay.” Right now she is actually proud of her composure. His eyes narrowed into slits. Jaehaera holds on to her mask. Her fingers twist the material of her skirts. The urge to rear away from him she stamps with conviction she did not she possessed. Convincing herself that she is in no danger, Jaehaera continues her game.

“Jaeheara.” Her name falls from his lips, a whip crack, an order. She holds her breath. Aegon leans in towards her, but thankfully the table between them is quite large, so as to render his movement a mere drop in the ocean. He could barely even reach her hands had they been on the table. Which they aren’t. “Jaehaera!” he repeats, louder this time.

Her fingers ache. She looks down at her lap. Of course they would. She’d been twisting them into the folds of her dress, holding them so stiffly it’s a wonder they haven’t fallen off. She lets go and flexes her fingers. “I believe I am not hungry any longer.” She sits still.

It is bad form to rise before the King does. Even as his wife, she is to wait until he is done and only then can she take to her own feet. Aegon gives her a sharp look, but he is in no hurry to rise. He motions the cup bearers away. They retreat. She returns her eyes to his face. A battle of wills commences.

Jaehaera has been, for as long as she could remember, a placid, calm, reserved sort of woman. Anger to her is an icy calmness and joy is a bright smile. She is not fond of exhibiting her emotions. She does not want people studying her. It’s a misfortune to have been born a princess with her disposition. Right now, though, she wishes she had been different. More like aunt Rhaenyra. This rage coursing through her veins is not of her own making. She does not feel so strongly. A princess, and for that matter a queen, does not allow her temper to rule her.

Aegon rises to his feet, towering over her seated form. “We shall discuss later.” He stalks past her as she too stands, but she can swear she hears him chocking back a sound. Whether it is irritation or something else, she cannot tell.


	34. to let your heart go - aegon iii/jaehaera t.

The maester shakes his head and Aegon can feel something ugly rising inside of him. “So you’ve said the last time too, maester.” The implacability of his stare would have been enough to melts rocks, but the maester shakes his head again. Aegon doesn’t want to listen to this. “Either you save her or I put your head up on the battlements.” His frown deepens. “Get out!” he manages between clenched teeth.

Scurrying past him the man looks even more like a rat. Aegon dismisses the rest of Jaehaera’s women with a sharp nod. He walks to his wife’s bed and looks down upon her pasty face. A sheen of sweat cover her forehead and her breathing is too shallow by half. Aegon sits on the edge of the bed, taking her hand in his. He wills her to open her eyes and look at him.

His anger grows tenfold when she continues to ignore his silent plea. The gods are cruel. He’s always known. But this is too much. She was supposed to get better. She was supposed to sit across from him in the morning and tell him between bites of food that the next time she would give him an heir. Instead she lies dying. “Damn you,” he hisses, on the verge of shaking her awake now. “You little fool.”

Jaehaera has never carried a child to term. Every single one of them she’d bled out. And every single time she would fall into a spell of grief after which she would her way back in his arms. Aegon doesn’t blame her. He should, because he needs an heir. But Aegon doesn’t cast her aside in favour of another. Jaehaera is his Queen. Mayhap his attachment is foolish, but Aegon cannot let her go. She had miscarried before and she has pulled through even after filling lakes with all the blood she’s lost. So why won’t she get better now?

“Jaehaera!” There is desperation in his voice. He recognises the crack in it and the unpleasant taste burning in the back of his throat. “Jaehaera, please.” Her lips tremble and her eyelid flutter. For half a heartbeat he thinks he might have woken her. But she settled back in sleep. “You cannot die, do you hear? I won’t allow it.”

But when was he ever strong enough to stop the Stranger? Jaehaera shudders lightly. Her eyes open this time. The glassy violet staring up at him is foreign. Yet his wife smiles. Her lips open and, he cannot be sure, but she seems to be whispering his name. Then her voice becomes louder. “Aegon, you came. I was having such a nice dream.”

Rough fingers clench around her soft small hand. Gods be good, he doesn’t want to see her light fading. “What was it about?”

“I was dreaming of our garden,” she says. “I was dreaming of the rosebush.” A faint smile touches her lips. “Jaehaerys came for me.”

The words cut right through his heart. Argon grinds his teeth. Jaehaerys, of course, it would be Jaehaerys in her dreams. He’s been dead for a decade now, but she still dreams of her lost brother. Aegon brushes away a lock of damp hair that sticks to her cheek. His intrusion in their garden is telling. “What did Jaehaerys say?” he finally asks because the silence is more painful.

“He wanted me to thank you.” The words drop like a ton on bricks on his head. Jaehaera doesn’t seem to notice, perhaps too much in pain or too far gone. “Aegon, I have to go,” she rasps, her hand clinging weakly to his. “I don’t want to leave,” his wife murmurs.

“The don’t,” he tells her, “don’t ever leave me. Stay by my side.” It seems so simple. Aegon doesn’t know why he hasn’t though of this before. “Stay with me, Jaehaera.”

This time her smile is warm and full of grief. “Don’t mourn me, Aegon. Wed again and have children. The realm needs this.” He shakes his head. She’s right, but he cannot fathom her as anything but by his side. “If you ever have a daughter, don’t name her Jaehaera. She shouldn’t be followed by tragedy.”

“You needn’t worry over such matters. On the morrow you shall feel better,” he assures her. But his voice is trembling. “And then even better after and soon you will give me a son.” ‘Tis folly, ‘tis wistful thinking. She is dying before his eyes.

“I’ve always liked Daeron. It is such a powerful name.” Her eyes shine, but it is the pain and suffering, not her happiness. Aegon leans in and brushes his lips to hers. “I should like to have a son named Daeron.”

“We’ll have a son.” It’s almost an order. “And his name will be Daeron.” His hear constricts painfully. _I love you_ , the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he cannot say them. Gods damn it all. _I love you, Jaehaera_. It is not a difficult thing to say. _I love you. I love you. I love you._

But, what if she dies?

“I never meant to be a burden. I will wait for you patiently,” she says. “Live long, husband. And leave all this sorrow behind.” Her voice is so faint by the end that he can barely hear it. Her hand slips from his and terror grips him.

“Jaehaera!” he calls out, taking her face in his hands. “Jaehaera! Oh gods!” _I love you!_ Her breathing is almost nonexistent now. Pain rips through him.

And finally she breaths no longer.

A sort of madness descends upon him. Aegon rips his hands away from her and hits the first thing he can find. A chair crashes to the ground, a table follows. Wine spills from a goblet and rage, horrible, blinding fury has him howling.

The door flies open and Viserys hurries in. He tries to restrain his brother, but what he receives for his efforts is a punch in the chest. “She’s dead! She’s gone!” Viserys yells from his position on the ground. “Valar morghulis.”

Surprisingly this calms him. Aegon looks at his dead wife as if seeing her for the first time. He leaves his brother to stand up on his own and make his way back to Jaehaera’s side. He touches her face with trembling fingers. Leaning in, his lips touching the shell of her ear, he speaks. “I love you, Jaehaera.” Aegon takes the cooling body in his arms and kisses her bloodless lips. “I could never leave you behind.”

* * *

 

 

 


	35. happy ending - daenaera v./aegon iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is a companion to the previous capter "to let your heart go". You don't necessarily have to read that one too to understand, but I thought you should know anyway.
> 
> Happy reading.
> 
> This piece is dedicated to maraaa.

Daenaera cradles her newborn daughter and tries not be disheartened by her husband’s frown. He looks at the babe as if he had been expecting something else. “What would like to name her, my lord?” she asks. “I though, perhaps, you might like to name her after your lady mother.”

Aegon shakes his head. “Nay, not Rhaenyra.” Daenaera wonder if he considers naming the child after her predecessor in his bed. A silent fury steals over her at the though. He would not dare do this to her. He would not. At least she thinks so.

He won’t say as much, but Daenaera is well aware that her husband’s heart beats for a woman whose flesh is powder and ashes, whose heart has long since stopped beating. Jaehaera she was named. Jaehaera the dead queen. Jaehaera the childless. Jaehaera Targaryen the first wife of Aegon. Daenaera’s lips set in a mutinous line. The babe starts crying and Aegon pulls back suddenly.

Her husband won’t even look at her. She has given him children, three more than his dead first wife, and she has given him all her love and devotion. But Aegon doesn’t see that. He keeps staring out the window at Jaehaera’s Garden, at the tree underneath which rests his Queen.

Daenaera might be the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but Jaehaera is the Queen of Aegon’s heart. “Then mayhap my lord will find her a name.” Not Jaehaera, not Jaehaera, not Jaehaera, she prays, hoping the gods are not so cruel. Anything but Jaehaera. Any other name but that.

“Let her name be Daena,” he proclaims a moment later, his eyes still on the gardens. Daenaera rocks the child gently. “Will that please you, my lady?” There is something mocking about the words. Aegon cares little for what pleases her. He simply wants children. He even named their firstborn Daeron, because that woman had liked the name. Viserys told her.

“It please me greatly to please you,” she says in the end. Daenaera gurgles in her arms and shifts her position. “Won’t you hold her?” Violet eyes cut from her face to the babe’s. He has held Daeron and Baelor. But only a few weeks after they’d been born. Aegon was not with her when their sons were born. “Come, my lord, hold our daughter,” Daenaera cajoles.

Aegon sighs but takes the child in his arms. He studies her face . Daenaera smiles warmly at the picture they make. She’ll win him over yet. That dead little queen of his cannot hold a candle to her. All she needs to do is keep him close to herself and the children and eventually he’ll forget all about Jaehaera Targaryen.

“Is she not beautiful?” the mother asks, beaming at husband and daughter.

“She is lovely.” And the ice pierces her heart again. Aegon never calls anyone beautiful. Viserys told her once that only Jaehaera was ‘beautiful’ to him after their mother’s death.

“She is your daughter,” Daenaera hisses at him. “Surely you can think of something better than lovely.”

Aegon gives her back the child and leaves without another word.

* * *

 

 

 


	36. after time - quentyn m./gwyneth y.

She draws the skirts up to her knees and dips in just a toe at first, then the whole foot, then the water reached her ankle. Her other foot is still on the ground. Gwyneth looks at him over her shoulder, dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “Are you certain you shan’t join me, my Prince?” her voice is soft against his eras.

Quentyn doesn’t think she is doing this on purpose. She cannot know how this display makes his blood heat up and sizzle. Instead of enlightening her, the Prince smiles benignly. “I am quite comfortable here, my lady.” He watches as her other foot take it into the water. She climbs down a few more steps until the edge of her skirts is touching the water.

How jealous Quentyn is of the sweet water caressing her skin like he wants to do. Gwyneth whirls around, a smile on her face. “It’s quite cool, this water.” Her fingers bunch the material just a bit higher. Quentyn is riveted by the patch of skin exposed to his gaze. Suddenly she lets out a scream, dropping the skirts.

He jumps to his feet and hurries towards the steps. When his hands are around her waist, hers own clutch his shoulders. Quentyn pulls her out of the waters, mindless of the damp clothing clinging to her legs. Her fingers are digging into his skin through the material of his tunic.

“What is it, Gwyneth?” he asks her slowly, eyes on the water. He can make nothing out.

“There was something there,” she says quietly. “Something brushed against my leg.” But then she’d shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t know, my Prince. It was so sudden.”

Maybe it was something. Or mayhap it was nothing. Quentyn leads them back to the rocks and Gwyneth sits down next to him. She is trembling lightly, no doubt cold by now. “We should go back.” Her leg is pressed against his and Quentyn should hate himself for this, but it thrills him.

Gwyneth flushes red. “If Your Grace so desires.” Her chin drops and long locks of dark hair tumble forward to cover her face from his gaze.

What Quentyn desires is to kiss every inch of her, from the crown of her head down to her toes. What Quentyn desires is to lie down with her this very night and hold her. He wants to make love to her until the early hours of the morning. He wants to feel her and know her and hear her cry out in pleasure that he has brought upon her.

What Quentyn does is take her hand and take her back to the keep. He will have her soon enough. So he watches the wet skirts clinging to her legs and lets himself be consumed by thoughts of her dainty feet and shapely legs. Gwyneth Yronwood promised him her love a lifetime ago and he is here to collect the debt. 

Little Gwyneth is still little, but older, approachable.


	37. it starts with water - aegon iii./jaehaera t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think for one moment that Aegon didn't hide a passionate heart behind that straight face of his, I don't even know what you are doing here...
> 
> Enjoy!

Aegon watched her slip the doeskin slippers off her feet and place them neatly at her side. She walked barefoot to the water and knelt, the material of her dress growing taut. How like a snake he felt watching her from his reclining position. But just as the sun could not help shining, Aegon could not help gazing at Jaehaera. She cupped water in her hands and brought it to her lips. 

“The water here is so sweet,” she said. “Come, have a sip, husband.” The invitation rolled off her lips and Aegon would have been persuaded to give her the moon in the sky if she asked for that in the same way. She smiled when he sat next to her and offered him her cupped palms. Aegon bent his head over them and took what she gave. 

But it was not water that he wanted the taste of in his mouth. So instead of leaving her to her water, he caught her arm gently and pulled her wrist to his lips, bushing the throbbing vein softly. His wife sucked in a breath. The right thing to do was to return to his spot in the shade of the tree. What he did was pull her in his arms and kiss her lips. She gasped and stiffened, but soon enough she responded to his prompting.

“The night is not yet fallen,” she whispered, her breath hot on his face. Yet she helped him lift her skirts and pulled him to the ground with her. “Someone might happen by.” She pressed her foot to his booted calf, fingers fighting the laces of his breeches.

“We are alone,” he grunted, unknotting the strings of her dress, which where blessedly at the front. Tugging until it gave way, Aegon arched slightly when her fingers crossed the nape of his neck. “No one is about.” She crossed her legs behind his knees and he kissed her then, passionately. Desire thrummed in his veins, mirror by her anticipation. “But we could always stop,” he panted slightly with the effort of holding back. 

Blunt nails dug in his skin. She seemed to have no words for him. But her meaning was clear as she gave a shallow thrust of her hips. He caught her before she could reach the ground and she took him inside in one thrust. Aegon moved slowly, testing her, but Jaehaera was having none of it. She scratched at his back and sucked on his lower lip. She was goading him into relinquishing his iron control. And Aegon decided that he might just indulge her.

Pushing one of her legs higher, he effectively lifted her almost off the ground as its twin limb followed. The shift brought a change in rhythm. His gaze caressed her writhing form and then his lips and mouth followed his eyed. Who would have thought that he’d gain a wife so much after his own mind.

One leg fell, heel digging into the ground when Jaehaera broke his world in flashes of blinding light, only to remake it with her wildly beating heart and soft loving whispers trickled in his ear. A man would have to be truly heartless and with ice for blood to ignore that.

He pulled away ruefully and looked at the lake while rightening his clothes. If he looked at her, he would only want her again. It was a curse running through his veins and he cherished every single moment of it.


	38. just words - jaime l.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Jaime angst, because...no reason. Just because.

Words are powerful. Jaime learns this only once his position is precariously close to bringing his mind toppling down. The walls he raises around himself are so easily brought down. They corrode and decay each time a cry comes from behind the closed doors. He closes his eyes to stop the images from forming, but the bruises and scars taunt him in flashes. His mind screams, two different voices warring inside his head.

In the end it is words that hold him back. His own words, sworn out of a misguided conception. Jaime sought glory by speaking words he had no knowledge the meaning of. His folly brings him only endless nights of horrifying images to plague him in his sleep. He is no safer during waking hours. Daylight provides him with new material to fuel his night terrors.

Binding words cut as deep as any sword, Jaime finds. But this wound cannot be wrapped in linens and healed with salves. So they fester, the rot spreading to the very depths of his soul. There is no cutting the foulness from his breast. Try as he might, Jaime can do nothing but close himself well away from these horrors, become deaf and blind and heartless.


	39. closer - aegon iii./jaehaera t.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning guys, there's a touch of necrophilia in this.

The Stranger is greedy, Aegon thinks, watching as Lord Baratheon bends over Jaehaera’s hand. Out of all the Gods, ‘tis the Stranger that the King wishes he could knock out of the sky. His Queen sits the throne with as much Grace as she had in life but anyone can tell that the roses in her cheeks have wilted and the light in her eyes is gone. He can see the black marking on her skin, testimony to the God’s fatal touch. But Aegon is not prepared to let her go.

So every day she is bathed and dressed, her stiff limbs forced into soft silks. Every day a little bit more of the rot is covered in bandages. Every day she awaits him, a perfect speechless statue, her eyes closed. She will never open them, he knows, yet Jaehaera’s presence is soothing even so. He shan’t allow the Stranger free reign of her. It is a promise that he will find her again once he crosses to whatever waits beyond this life. He hopes ‘tis she waiting. It is his way of asking for her patience and indulgence. Until he can truly be with her again, this is enough.


	40. thereafter - rhaegar t., elia m., rhaenys t., lyanna s.

Something wet slides against his cheek and the pressure in his chest gives way, air rushing in his lungs. Rhaegar eyes open to a light blue sky. He blinks in confusion. The hammer came down, smashing against his armoured chest. The breastplate cracked and dented, metal tearing through his chest, blood and rubies flying all around. Where is he?

He brings his hand to his chest. His fingertips are soaked in blood. His blood, Rhaegar realises a moment later when he looks down.

He is dead. The realisation doesn’t surprise him. It fails to raise any kind of response from him.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” That’s all that he can say to Elia. She is covered in blood, cradling a deformed creature that was once their son. Rhaenys hols onto her mother’s skirts.

Rhaegar kneels and holds his arms opened. The little Princess fairly flies into his arms. Rhaegar kisses her dark curls and rocks her gently. “I called you, father. And now you are here.” She pulls away slightly. “I was brave.”

Elia watches them without saying a word. She owes him nothing here. Her eyes cut through him though, for Rhaenys sports the marks of cruelty on her fragile, small body. Rhaegar holds her gently by the shoulders. “Of course you were brave. You are my daughter.”

* * *

 

The last to come is Lyanna. The young she-wolf does not seem confused or sad or anything really. There is blood on the skirts of her dress and a crown of blue roses rests on her temples. She looks around with vague curiosity. Rhaegar does not interrupt her.

When she finally notices him a small smile makes its way to her lips. How unexpected, the Prince thinks. But Lyanna has already gathered her skirt in one hand and she is walking along the narrow path to him. He meets her halfway.

Rhaegar brushes a strand of dark hair back. “Why are you here?”

“It was a son,” she says, her hand sliding in his.


	41. the taste of rue on my lips - robb s., lyanna s., ned s.

_Honour and duty are nothing to love_ , a thousand voices speak as Robb feels the crude stitches that bind the beast’s head to the human’s body. _The heart wants what the heart wants. Whatever happens was written so from the very beginning; not time, nor chance shall alter the path._

A hand touches his shoulder and Robb turns around slightly. A familiar face peers up at him. But the woman is a stranger. Her blood runs down the delicate silk of her dress, yet she smiles for some unknown reason. The crown of roses gives her away. However, she speaks even before that.

“Welcome, brother, to where the price of love is paid.” From behind the woman – nay, Lyanna, Robb corrects himself – steps a strange shadow. It is gone before long. “Come, join us,” Lyanna invites him, pulling on his sleeve. Robb follows, his eyes taking in the feast of the dead. Strangely enough, they all look eerily alive.

“Where are we?” he asks, still in awe.

“Have I not told you,” his aunt laughs. “You are in the Hall of the Dead. And here you shall remain until the end of days.” That smile is still of her lips. Robb wonders if it is frozen there. Does she not realise they are dead?

“I want to go back,” he hears himself saying.

Lyanna’s shoulders slump. Her smile falters. “We all do.” The whisper plays softly past his ear. “But the dead and the living should not mingle. I am sorry. I wasn’t ready to go either.” She inclines her head slightly. “Tell me about Jon.”

Why he knows she speaks of Jon Snow, Robb can’t say. Just as he doesn’t understand how he knows that Jon has her smile. “Jon chose honour.” Everything makes sense now.

She looks up suddenly as if she can see past the dark dome that shelters them. “Honour is good.” The young woman sighs. “But it feels empty.” Her lips purse for a moment. “Lonely too.”

“Can the dead feel pain?” Robb questions. The hollowness in his chest hurts him.

“Always,” Lyanna replies. “Let us sit.” And they make their way to bench where a bleeding man plays a harp, the sweet sounds filling the hall. Next to him sits a young man, his face burned and distorted. Robb also sees his father a little way away, having words with a knight in armour and a lady who drips blood from between her lips and cradles an infant. All these people he has never met, but he knows them.

His father turns around and greets him sadly. “I had hoped to not see you here for a long time,” Eddard says. Nonetheless, he is engulfed in a fatherly embrace and some of the darkness is pushed back. Lyanna has slipped away and she now sits with her head against the harpist’s shoulder. “Come meet Ser Dayne and his sister, Lady Ashara.” And Robb does.

Slowly, slowly all concerns with the other world fade as the conversation progresses.


	42. the looking glass - jaehaera t./aegon iii.

Tears fill Jaehaera’s eyes as her hands slap against the glass. Unfortunately, her strongest of hits does not seem to have any effect on the wall of her prison. Desperately she looks around, thinking to find some aid. But just as before, the space is empty. There is her and darkness. Frustration rips an anguished cry from her.

The last of her memories involve a tearful goodbye and her husband’s warm embrace. Now she is alone in a sea of nothingness. Is this one of the seven hells, she wonders. Is she condemned? But why?

A loud creak distracts her from those thoughts momentarily. A sliver of light spears the dark. Jaehaera’s hand follows it, but her fingers make contact with the invisible wall holding her captive before she can reach it. Thwarted, she bites down upon her lower lip to keep from screaming.

But then a veritable flood of light breaks against the glass as the door opens to reveal a wizened old man. Relief blossoms in Jaehaera’s breast at the sight of him. Surely he will help her out. The man stops and stares at her. Jaehaera opens her mouth to speak, but before a word can leave her lips, the old man turns his back to her and walks out the room.

“Wait!” she yells after him. “Come back! Please!” And someone does. But it is not the old man.

Before Jaehaera stands her husband in his customary mourning clothes. He approaches her carefully, as if not knowing what to expect. Jaehaera is speechless, shock and joy both contributing equally. He touches the glass and she mirrors his movement. Warmth spreads against her palm and only then does she realise how cold she is.

“Aegon,” she says softly. A greeting. A prayer.

“You really are here. I doubted he could do it.” Confusion touches her face at such speech. “I thought I lost you,” her husband continues, “but Tollard kept his word and brought you back.”

“Back?” What does he mean? “Aegon, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be. You are safe.” He traces odd patterns against the glass. “The fever claimed you and you’d gone.”  
The truth hits her. “I am dead.” She looks down at her hands. They are too white. “Why am I still here?” Anger shoots though her, and she hits the glass again. “Why am I still here?” Jaehaera wills him to give her answers.

“I cannot let go,” Aegon confesses after a moment of silence. “This is the only way, Jaehaera.” There is something so utterly raw about the way his eyes look at her then that Jaehaera is tempted to forgive him this violation of heavenly and earthly laws. But she knows it is wrong and even the fiercest love won’t wash that away.

“Let me go,” she tells him, steeling her heart against the pain. “What you are doing, husband, ‘tis wrong. I am no longer of the living.” She has heard that spirits may be trapped in a looking glass, but she never thought she would ever be one of them. “Release me.”

“Never.”


	43. the cabal - jaehaera t./aegon iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regency!JaehaeraxAegon, beacuse this would be so much fun. Don't even try to deny it. :)

Jaehaera absolutely refuses to be the one to tell her aunt that the particular shade of puce she has selected for her gown makes her look like an overstuffed pastry. She bites her lip just in case her carefully wrought mask threatens to slip. Aunt Rhaenyra should be watching her but she is distracted by a good-looking Marbrand who is in desperate need of her opinion on the weather or some such scintillating subject. How rousing. Jaehaera feels positively faint. 

Jacaerys lurks somewhere in the shadows, no doubt making eyes at the pretty young Hightower girl his mother has forbidden him to speak to. Normally, she would help her hapless cousin, but the fact that he is married falls as a convenient barrier. After all, she cannot encourage a member of her close family into sinning.

A hand touched her elbow gently. Jaehaera turns her head slightly to look at Viserys. He hands her the punch glass with a wolfish grin and she intend to ask if he has managed to spike the normally inoffensive drink. Again. This would be – Jaehaera pauses to do a mental count – the fifth time. “Planning anything nefarious?” she asks him instead. She has no desire to be too obvious.

“I would never,” he replies, affecting a hurt mien. They both know he is lying. “But I think the Velaryon chit is.” He nods towards Daenaera Velaryon throwing what one might term as sickly sweet glances towards Aegon who is ignoring her for the much more interesting conversation of Captain Alyn Velaryon. ”You should save him.”

“He hardly looks in any danger to me.” She takes a sip if her punch. “It is I in need of saving.”

“Then go make him save you.” Viserys doesn’t even have the good grace to wait for her answer before he pulls her hand in of his arm and leads her towards the conversing duo with the addition of Miss Velaryon. “Brother!” Viserys greets Aegon first. “Captain Velaryon, Miss Velaryon.”

“Cousin, Captain Velaryon, Miss Velaryon,” Jaehaera echoes. She desperately wants to stage some mishap that will free her from Aegon’s burning stare, and the memory of that one – accidental – kiss. 

Daenaera is clearly displeased to see her, but the Captain sweeps her a bow and gives her a wide boyish grin that makes him look a decade younger than what she knows his age to be. “Miss Targaryen, how do you do?”

“I am well, Captain, thank you. And yourself?” she questions, willing Aegon to look away. “I trust you’ve had a good crossing from Dorne.”

As the Captain regales them with takes of his life at sea, Viserys draws Daenaera away for a dance and Jaehaera throws him a subtle glare. That traitor. What is even worse is that the scoundrel had all of this planned out. Unfortunately, she is now left to fend for herself. Captain Velaryon is too caught up in his story to notice the look that passes between Aegon and herself and she is too well bred to walk away in the middle of a conversation.

A chill spears down her spine at the promise she sees in her cousin’s eyes.


	44. a tangle - jaehaera t./aegon iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regency!Au again. Have some more Aegon/Jaehaera. Companion to the previous chapter.

The heroine of the novel is once again dangling from some perilous angle at the end of the chapter. Jaehaera lifts her eyes from the page to give a mournful glance at whoever has passed the threshold and beg them to end her misery. One more page of the adventures of Miss Crosgrave and she will re-enact cousin Joffrey’s actions from last evening. She suspects that casting her accounts on her aunt’s new carpet won’t contribute anything positive to the already deplorable image Rhaenyra Targaryen has of her niece.

But, as she meets the eyes of yet another of Rhaenyra’s sons, Jaehaera hastily changes her previous thought. If she would survive ruining her aunt’s carpets, she will definitely be treated to the guillotine if she ruins her son. So she stands to her feet and attempt to employ her blandest mask. “Cousin,” she greets Aegon who is approaching her as if she were a weary beast. He is half right.

Keeping her gaze on his face as she is, Jaehaera fails to notice his hand coming up to her shoulder. He catches her before she can even think to run. “My name is Aegon.” He says the words deliberately slow as if she were a slow child in need of patience. Her eyes narrow at him. “Do try using it, Jaehaera.”

A stiff smile makes its way to her lips. She tries to subtly slip out of his grasp. He won’t give way. “Cousin Aegon,” Jaehaera protests softly, “you ought not to hold my path.”

The only thing she earns herself is a flashing warning in his eyes and then his lips are careering into hers. The soft muslin of her morning gown becomes constrictive in such a sudden manner that Jaehaera wonders if maybe a charm has been cast upon her. Aegon makes no move to release her anytime soon. In fact, his other arm has locked around her waist and he pulls her into him.

She yields, not because she might do so and not for lack of wits, but because there is something comforting in the way he draws himself around her, the tall frame of her cousin hunching over her in an almost protective manner. Perhaps he doesn’t mean it and it is just her mind at play, but she swears he is trying to convince her he is harmless. At least when it comes to her. 

Aegon is quite tall, a trait he has from both his parents. Jaehaera is small, tiny even, and she feels it even more acutely when this particular man has his arms around her. She feels much like a ragdoll in his strong embrace. But he handles her with such care that she knows he wouldn’t purposefully harm her. And yet it frightens her, the distinct maleness so close to her. Jaehaera fears she’ll break from the tension in her every muscle whenever he touches her.

The most shocking moment is when his tongue finally manages to find its way to hers. The touch is electrifying. Jaehaera has to pull away.

“We cannot do this,” she murmurs, lips red and swollen. Her aunt will kill her. “You cannot do this.”

But apparently he can, because Aegon’s fingers press at the nape of her neck and his lips touch hers softly. He does not move for one full heartbeat which to Jaehaera feels like a lifetime. The urge to press harder against him slams into her like a storm into spread sails. He must have felt the change. He always does. 

In the next moment she is a prisoner of his kiss again.


	45. this elopement - jaehaera t./aegon iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more Regency!AU...I have no excuse.

“You have taken leave of your senses,” Jaehaera hisses through clenched teeth. She would speak louder but she fears that someone might hear. While she does think that indeed her cousin is no longer in possessions of his wits, she won’t the one to bring the whole house upon them. “You might put me down,” she grumbles as Aegon carries her down the steps as if she were a sack of flour.

Her cousin is much too preoccupied with the best way to avoid breaking both their necks. Jaehaera sees the wisdom in allowing him his calculations. There is not a sliver of her that wishes to haunt aunt Rhaenyra’s indiscriminately decorated mansion. The true nightmare would be forever being attached to the billowing pink curtains in the drawing room. Jaehaera cannot help shuddering lightly.

When she is deposited in the carriage, Jaehaera knows the danger is past. She may freely inspect the mental health of her cousin. “If there is anything resembling intelligence left in there,” she pints to his head, “you will turn this carriage right around.”

Aegon simply smiles at her, a thin stretch of lips. “It would only serve to make everything more difficult. I would need a special license and I confess I am ill equipped to wait much longer.” This is one of those plans that either strikes one as romantic or plain stupid. Jaehaera is not sure what to say. “You might as well make yourself comfortable.”

“You do realise that when aunt Rhaenyra wakes up on the morrow and sees both of us gone, she’ll be furious, don’t you?” She eyes him with a modicum of despair when his only reaction is to grin. There are times when she thinks that Aegon is not at all disheartened at the prospect of giving his mother gray hairs. Worry snakes into her heart when she finds that her own heart is in perfect agreement.

“Speechless, are you?” Aegon teases when Jaehaera fails to make any more observations as pertaining to his flagrantly foolish behaviour. “Does that mean you won’t be trying to convince me to return?” His fingers twine around hers, his hand warm and strong. The shudder that makes its way down her back this time is different from the previous one.

“This marriage you aspire to,” she starts, “will not please your mother.” In fact, Jaehaera is sure that when aunt Rhaenyra understands exactly what is going on, she will insist upon an annulment. Jaehaera knows she is not what her aunt desires in Aegon’s spouse. 

“Not to worry,” he breathes lightly against her ear. “I have no intention of pleasing my mother in this.” His arm slips around her, pulling her into his side. Jaehaera is thankful for the warmth and not at all on her guard. It makes sense that he would take the advantage. Aegon seals her fate with a simple kiss. “I wish you wouldn’t worry over what my mother wants or not. You will be my wife regardless.”

How very comforting. Jaehaera decides to give him her trust for now.


	46. sincere heart - jaehaera t./aegon iii.

Jaehaera fumbles with the tie of her dress. Her stomach roils in protest. Her hands shake, her skin is clammy. She doesn’t relish the helping hands that come to her aid. In fact she wishes she could push them all away. She wants to beg them to stop touching her, to stop straightening the collar of her gown, to no longer pull on her cuffs.

This is always the case whenever her husband holds court and wishes for her presence. Jaehaera is forever wondering if he might lop of her head finally and find himself another wife. The urge to weep and cry out for mercy rears its ugly head. Her cowardice is a punch to the stomach. She is a dragon. She does not beg for mercy.

Her knees are weak and she mist force her feet to take small, listless steps. Maegor’s Holdfast remains behind her as she is led into the throne room. One of these days she is sure the King will demand her head, or ask to have their marriage annulled or anything really to be rid of her. Jaehaera lives with this constant fear. She has learned to breathe with it, and smile and appear without a care for all the world.

Her pretence is so real, so very carefully constructed that the Seven themselves couldn’t call her anything but content if they could not see within her heart. She just wants to be able to breathe again without the weight of the world pressing her down, crushing her underneath a mountain of worries. 

“Her Majesty, the Queen!” The cry rings out as she steps inside the cavernous hall. Jaehaera keeps her eyes on the throne, on the man sitting it. She silently begs whoever there is that can help her to give her the strength to pull through today. 

Stern-faced and grim as is his way, Aegon fixes her with a cool stare. The calm façade Jaehaera had worked to hard to cultivate cracks for a moment, revealing the vulnerable woman that hides behind it. She pulls her mask bask together to the best of her abilities. All around her the courtiers whisper. She can hear them but is unable to make out their words. The problem with King’s Landing is that everyone else knows everything before her. Jaehaera sometimes wishes she would be told before everyone else. A powerless queen is not worth much.

Fear grips her throat tightly, wrapping invisible fingers around the slender column of her neck. Aegon stands to his feet and terror mounts up inside of her. Jaehaera fights to keep her calm as the King walks down the narrow steps. At a long last there is silence in the hall, as if all the courtiers hold their breath collectively. 

Aegon takes her hand with a small nod of greeting. He turns them both to face the crowd. “This day is a joyous occasion, my lords and ladies. This day is the Queen’s nameday.”

The courtiers bow and wish her well in a loud chorus. 

For the time being Jaehaera can breathe.


	47. last - aegon iii./jaehaera t.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too many feels...TT^TT

It’s a rush of words. Aegon is petrified, just for a moment – because this should have never happened, because this was not supposed to happen – because once again he is powerless. They gave him a crown and a king’s chair and for a short while he dared hope it might change everything.

Instead all that it achieves is another loss.

“The Queen, Your Majesty,” his Hand tells him, “is dead.” He can see it in the man’s eyes. He knows why even before they tell him how. 

Oh, she was hurting. She was sad and lonely – but she had smiled softly, secretly at the little blooms on the cherry tree. Aegon knows it hadn’t been all in his head. Her eyes had expressed a moment of joy, standing there with him in the warm light of the sun. She had promised – “We should enjoy the cherries when they finally come,” she’d said, in her usual quiet voice – or so Aegon would have liked to believe.

He demands to see her – one last time, to wish her safe on her last journey. Sombre faces try to convey sadness – a tragedy, truly, nay, a disaster – but Aegon is well aware that the truth crawling beneath their veneers is poison. 

The harsh winds of winter have picked up. Is it too late? Perhaps this is all part of a night terror. The boy-king half expects to see his mother’s blackened corpse standing before him. But all there is, is a pool of blood and small fingers curled around a gold ring – the same ring Aegon had allowed Jaehaera to have, one belonging to her late mother.

“She was melancholy, Your Grace.” The comment strikes him as odd. Jaehaera was determined. Aye, she’d been angered, remorseful at the loss of her loved ones, and she had doubtlessly suffered knowing she would never see them again. But so does he. And now there is someone else he won’t ever see again.

This is the last time. Aegon’s fingers tighten in a fist and his face grows pale as they turn her around gingerly, as if she could feel anything. Half her face is covered in dried blood. It is her eyes, though, that twist a knife in his heart. They are wide open – so odd, so like Jaehaera. The expression is resigned.

This is not right. Fury prickles at the nape of his neck, but Aegon knows that it is useless. He kneels by her but doesn’t dare touch her. 

From the darkened skies snow trickles down. The cherry tree has frozen in the gardens and his heart hides behind a wall of ice. He hopes that wherever she is, she understands his position when he endorses the tale of her jumping to her death. 

“Come, Your Majesty, we must away.” The cold is biting by this point and Aegon hopes it sinks its sharp fangs into all these people that are trying to take away the very last ray of sunshine.

Winter has come.


	48. by any other name - aegon iii. and rhaena t.

During the last few days, it's blood on handkerchiefs and a constant ache deep within his chest. Aegon knows what this means. He prays that it will be quick. And then he wonders why he'd asking of the gods. They have been conveniently deaf to every plea that has ever left his lips. The pain twists and turns inside of him, a barbed lash tearing him apart from within.

No sunlight streams through the windows. The curtains have been drawn tightly shut. The light hurts his eyes. It reminds him that despite everything that has passed the world goes on, uncaring, unsympathetic. Ghosts have been visiting him of late. The first one scared him enough to make him believe that he'd died. It had been one of his older brothers. His eyes couldn't make out which brother though. It might have been Luke. The footsteps sounded like they belonged to Luke.

His mother had come too, brushing back hid damp hair. He had missed her. Aegon would have wanted to tell her so many things. But the words wouldn't come. She had vanished into this air almost as soon as she had appeared. The pain it produced was dull. He shall see her again soon. The certainty is soothing.

The King hadn't realised that so many souls would make a point of coming by his sickbed. These were all people he had known at one point or another. They are all dust by now, all of them nothing but a memory. His memory.

The last to come is a little girl. This one Aegon cannot mistake. She looks at him with sad, sad eyes. Her hand touched his, small fingers splayed on the unhealthily plea skin. Blood seems to rush with more force within him. Her lips part as if to speak and the King finds himself straining to catch every last word.

But there is nothing.

* * *

Daenaera pulls her daughter back. "What are you doing in here?" the mother asks in a harsh voice. There are deep lines around her eyes and mouth. She looks so old and so full of grief in the semi-darkness of father's bedchamber. "You should not be here."

"I merely wanted to see His Majesty," comes the meek reply. Never has she or any of her siblings been allowed to call him father. She cannot say why she should care for the pain of this man who has been distant and cold towards them all their life. Aegon Targaryen might as well have died long before any of his children were born.

She knows the truth and perhaps that it the worst. Daena doesn't care and Elaena won't step into the room simply because Daena won't hold her hand and guide her in. None of Rhaena's cajoling works. The oldest of her sisters is her mother's daughter in every aspect, and not unlike their queenly mother, there is a deep rooted hate for their father within her breast. Elaena, of course, follows blindly, as she is wont to do.

But for Rhaena, this man is still her father. Despite his misgivings – and those are many to be sure – he is her father as much as the Queen is her mother. Nothing can wash that away, not her mother's displeasure, nor her sisters' indifference.

"Never come here again," Daenaera speaks, while pulling Rhaena after her.

Looking over her shoulder, she can see that her father is holding out his hand.

And that is when, in defiance of her mother, she breaks free and runs back to the ill King. Her fingers wrap around his hand.

"Jaehaera." His voice is thin and quiet. Who is Jaehaera, Rhaena wonders.

Yet her mother pulls her away once more. "Don't listen to him, my sweet. The Gods have taken his mind."


	49. haunted - aegon iii./jaehaera t.

In the gardens there is a maze. In the maze there is a statue. The statue is of a young woman. She is not tall, nor does her form impress by its voluptuous curves. She is dainty – fragile even – and young. Whoever carved this Galateaian figure was not thinking of a lover. The mouth is full, but it does not smile. Her eyes are wide open and her robes cover her fully.

Why this statue should fascinate him so, Aegon doesn’t know. But she pierced him with cold marble eyes and her small outstretched hands reach towards him, as if preparing to engulf him in her cool embrace. One of her arms is naked, the sleeve of her pristine robe flowing down in a frozen river. Aegon touches his hand to the lifeless stone. A deep ache splits his hear open and he manages only a shuddering breath before he pulls away.

He bends down at her feet and tries to read what has been carved in stone, in High Valyrian. He cannot make out much. Her name has been crossed out, but she died young, the poor girl to whom they raised this statue. She had been a child of ten. She had been a beloved Queen. His eyesight blurs and Aegon stands up, looking at the statue’s face. Clearly, whoever made this did not take into account the girl’s age. But it is still beautiful, in its own simple way.

“Daddy!” Rhaena cries from behind him, stumbling over a rock. Aegon barely has time to stop her fall. The girl grins at him and holds up a wreath of flowers. “Mommy says we should head back. But I wanted to give the lady this.” His daughter refers to the statue as ‘the lady’. “I think she’ll like it. She likes poppies and rainflowers, so I made her this.”

Aegon takes the offering gingerly and steps on the statue’s pedestal. He crowns ‘the lady’. “It looks good on her.”

Rhaena claps her hands. “Now you are her gallant night, daddy.”

They leave together, hand in hand, the father and daughter. And behind the tall willow a pale little girl with silver hair and tearful eyes watches them. There is a smile on her face and the asphodels in her hand are in full bloom. 

She hopes that this time life will be kinder. She hopes that his sorrow will be assuaged and forgotten. She hopes that he is happy and she hopes that when next they meet in the halls of nevermore he won’t be carrying rue anymore.

Feet ghosting over the tall grass, she bend down and wipes the dust away from the golden plaque on which a name is written. She mouths the words. They feel right. In her mind they even sound right. 

Jaehaera Taragreyn. Beloved daughter. Beloved sister. Beloved wife. Beloved Queen. Dead at only ten of age. Jaehaera Targaryen the broken queen of a Broken King. Jaehaera with no crown. Jaehaera with no children. Jaehaera, simply Jaehaera, who had died and left nothing of her likeness behind, except a statue that is not her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower symbolism:
> 
> Poppy - eternal sleep  
> Rainflower - I will never forget you  
> Asphodel - My regrets follow you to the grave  
> Rue - regret, sorrow, repentance


	50. gone so fast - lyanna s./rhaegar t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Restoration!AU

When they come back to King’s Landing, it’s lavish interiors and extravagant balls and every opponent of the Lannister rule saying they had known the rightful King would return. Lyanna had been young when the revolution took place. She had been a girl, barely flowered when the king fell upon one of his kinsguard’s sword and died.

Jaime Lannister is swinging at the end of a rope even now, his corpse rotting in the street. His father’s grave has been dug out and Tywin Lannister, Protector of the Realm, rots along with his son. Two lions in the sun. 

Rhaegar Targaryen sits his father’s throne and vengeance is an old friend. Lyanna’s own father had supported the Old Lion and she wondered if she too will hang. The noose would rip through her skin she is sure, but she will choke anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

They had been summoned to come before the King in a manner befitting those of old blood. She is grateful for it. To be brought to court in chains would be ruinous. Brandon already chafes at the King’s summoning of them. He tells Lyanna that she should fear nothing. They had not been involved with their father’s business. Lyanna knows better. 

The King may do as he wishes.

Surprisingly though, the King greets them warmly. He makes a grand display of forgiving everyone involved with the Lannister rebellion and they make merry all through the night. For a man who has been exiled, shamed and humiliated, the King is an extremely charming fellow. It must be the manner of the Old Continent. He dances and drinks, and Lyanna feels desperation behind his bright smile and laughing eyes.

What prompts her to open her arms to him? She cannot really say. Perhaps it’s because he is a wounded animal and she never makes light of the misfortunes of others. That and the fact that she has the soft heart of a woman. 

At first it is a few dances, a hand sliding just a fraction lower than allowed. Then it is stolen kisses. Short and sweet, pecks on the lips. They evolve into consuming, skilled clashes of skin and teeth and tongues. After that it is dishevelled clothing and intimate touches and flushed cheeks. It’s ripped silk and whispered promises and the authority of a monarch. It’s dangerous and sensual and more than Lyanna would have attributed to it.

In the end, it’s naked skin against bared flesh, damp and salty. It’s aching muscles and blood-stained sheets. It’s the death of Lyanna Stark. She becomes someone else, someone who depends on mercurial moods and half smiles. She becomes the secret that everyone knows. She is wrapped in costly cloth and showered in jewellery, but she is still the subject that everyone avoids when she is in the room. Yet as soon as the doors close the rumour mill starts turning. 

When they come back to King’s Landing, little does Lyanna imagine what the future has in store for her.


	51. ira - lyanna s. and elia m.

The slap cracks across unfeeling skin, the insult behind the gesture meant to sting. Lyanna looks at the other woman with tranquil eyes. Elia is shaking like a leaf, anger painting her delicate features. "How dare you stand before me?" Her black eyes spark with hatred. This is the loss of her children, the shame she has endured in her own home. "Cursed be the day my eyes landed on you."

"No doubt it already is," Lyanna replies, her smile nothing less than feral.

Elia grimaces at this response, her hands balling into fists. "You have taken everything from me!" she cries out. The recrimination shoots from her lips like a sword. But it still misses its target. Lyanna Stark merely acknowledges the accusation with a small nod. She further derides Elia by glancing at their host, impatience in her grey eyes.

"I have no apology to offer," she speaks, her gaze still on the Stranger. There is a fiendish gleam in her eyes. "What am I but a mere speck of dust? If it please Your Grace." And she lowers herself on her knees, all the way down, her skirts crushed. But then her insolent smile returns and the blood boils in Elia's veins. "I did what I thought best. And I accept whatever judgement you wish to pass upon me. But I will not beg forgiveness for my conscience asks it not of me."

The she-wolf stands to her feet and the Stranger touches her arm, wrapping skeletal fingers around it. "Enough."

"Enough," Lyanna agrees.

And Elia is left to wonder how in the seven hells this creature has managed to bleed her dry. But the ruler of the realm has spoken and here King is the Stranger. Crowned heads bow before him, for his is the power. So Elia must hold her tongue again.

"Your children await you," the Stranger speaks. A door opens and the sweet laughter of a girl reaches Elia's ears. "It is time for the dead to take their rightful place."

For Elia may have won back her children, but Lyanna has won something else.


	52. legământ - ned s. and lyanna s.

Tears run down his face as the knife sinks into the cold flesh of his sweet sister. But Lyanna is unfeeling. And he has made his promises to her. The eyes forever closed, her minutely upturned lips, she looks at peace. It is not right that it should be so. But the Stranger's hand has touched her loving heart the moment she heard that song.

Promise me, Ned…and so he does. He wishes he could ignore her words. He does. From a dark corner the babe cries as the blade parts skin and muscle. His wails grow shrill as the heart leaves its ephemeral cage. Never reveal to anyone this last wish of mine. Having liberated the tender thing, Ned wraps it in white cloth, the remnants of a white cloak.

Reed had taken the babe, rocking the child gently. But the crying won't stop. It grows louder and louder still as the burns in the small fire. When the last of it is gone, Ned gathers the dust in a pouch and hides it close to his own heart. The child no longer weeps.

Take me home, brother mine. All of me, but my heart. It has found a new home. Please. Promise me, Ned.

And when he passes through King's Landing he will visit the grave of the fallen prince.

Rhaegar Targaryen has lost the war. Rhaegar Targaryen has lost his life. But Rhaegar Targaryen will forever have Lyanna Stark's heart.


	53. wide-eyed - viserys t., rhaella t., elia m., rhaenys t., and aegon vi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Helen (the original requester), hanhreus and Ladysif2 (lovely contributors). :) Enjoy, my dear readers.

After the shock of pain there is only silence. Viserys feels something blessedly cool touch the back of his head and cannot help releasing a sigh. This brings memories from his childhood when he used to sit on his mother’s lap and she would brush his hair with a pretty gold comb encrusted with jewels. 

“Viserys, my sweet, it is time to wake up,” a kind voice whispers in his ears, faintly familiar and slightly hushed. “Come, open your eyes, my love. It is I, your mother.”

Sluggishly, light violet eyes open, disbelief mirroring in those shining pools. “Mother?” His throat constricts as the image of Rhaella Targaryen forms before his eyes. She looks exactly like she did in those happier days of his childhood. “Mother.”

She holds her arms open for him, the invitation clear in her gaze. He feels like a little boy when she clutches him to her chest, whispering sweetly that she had missed him. “I have been waiting.” She brushes a wayward curls out of his face. “Let me look at you.”

It’s the abundant love in her voice that cracks the last vestige of his control and Viserys is flooded by shame. So deep and abiding is this feeling that he must step back and cover his face. “I-“ he begins, unsure of what to say.

“I know,” Rhaella says, mere moments later. “I am your mother.” This time her voice is stronger, a hint of steel hiding beneath her words. “You are my son. Whatever else you may have become, you are my flesh and blood. And I could no more loathe you than I could cut my own heart out.”

Stunned, Viserys looks at her with round eyes. He wants to speak, but the words refuse to come. He wants to at least tell her that he loves her for loving him, undeserving as he is of her affection. Rhaella’s expression softens. She takes her son’s hand in hers.

“A mother will never stop loving her children. She may occasionally be disappointed in their choices. She may be angry at their mischief. And sometimes she does not understand them. But her children will always have a special place in her heart.” She smiles benevolently upon her son. 

Something crashes against his leg and Viserys looks down, instinctively tensing. A small round face peers up at him, shining black eyes holding hope. It takes no more than a few moments to recall the name that goes along with the face. “Rhaenys.”

His niece gives him a wide smile. She hugs his leg tighter and turns her head around. “He looks like father!” she yells to a woman who is rocking a babe. Viserys nods towards the gently smiling Elia Martell. But Rhaenys is already pulling on his sleeve, demanding his attention. “Play with me, uncle Viserys.”

Rhaella is laughing lightly. “Oh, do. Play with us Viserys. What shall we play?” his mother asks, bending over slightly. “Perhaps a game of tag.”

“Uncle Viserys should choose,” Rhaenys decides rather loudly. 

Two pairs of eyes turn towards Viserys, one amused and the other excited.

A light feeling settles in his chest. This is when Viserys knows that he can leave behind whatever was and no longer is.


End file.
